


Another Christmas Carol (And Dickens can go fuck himself)

by theonsfavouritetoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Christmas Carol adaptation, Angst, Christmas calendar fic, Did I Mention Angst?, Ghosts of Christmas, Like so much angst, M/M, One Chapter A Day, POV Theon Greyjoy, Past Relationships, Robb Stark is a Gift, Soul-Searching, THIS IS NOT A FUNNY FIC, Theon Greyjoy-centric, Theon is an absolute asshole, Theon is the angstiest bugger ever, srsly this is themost theon-centric fic i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 48,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: “Who?” Theon demands, starting to get annoyed. “Who is coming for me?”“What do you think?” Euron scoffs, swiping at the book lying on the bedside table. It lands at Theon’s feet, pages bent.A Christmas Carol. “The three Ghosts of Christmas of course,” Euron whispers.“Yeah, sure.” Theon has had enough. He knew he shouldn’t have read the fucking Dickens, now the shit’s even infiltrating his intoxicated dreams! “Look, Uncle, this has been fun but I think you ought to fuck off now. I’m going to wake up sooner or later. Oh, and since you’re allegedly dead and all? Please tell Mr. Dickens he can go fuck himself from me.”
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Starks, Theon Greyjoy/Jon Snow
Comments: 349
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello on the first Advent Sunday this year! 
> 
> I've been working on this story as my very first personal NaNo project (didn't put it on the website), and while I didn't hit the 50k goal, I did write every day - and if it was just one sentence. 
> 
> It's about Theon. Period. This is without a doubt the most Theon-centric fic I've ever written, and drowned fuck it's angsty. Really angsty. Of course it's also about Jon, because Theon's all about Jon (in my world) even though he doesn't want to acknowledge it. It's also probably the most depressing Christmas fic that has ever been, but true to myself AND Dickens (whom I don't like btw) it has a very happy, sappy ending. And some sap in between. Chrm. 
> 
> A very very VERY huge and heartfelt Thank You goes to @half_life, for letting me harrass you with my daily chapters, for cheering me on and then even going as far as betaing the complete mess this was (is). I do remember our bet, and now it starts ;)

The house looks just the same as it always has. But then why would it have changed? In Theon’s mind everything is different than the last time he was here, and maybe he’d thought it would be reflected in everything, even the house. Maybe it should be different. Maybe it should look darker, less inviting. But the downstairs windows are brightly lit, shadows moving behind the crocheted curtains of the kitchen window. The Christmas decorations are up, have probably been since the first Advent Sunday, including a little fir tree in the front garden, wrapped in a twinkling string of lights, and a wreath of holly and mistletoe adorning the front door. 

Theon slowly walks up the path to the door, carefully swept free of snow. It’s still glittering on the lawn to both sides of the grass, but someone has apparently been tasked with keeping the paved part visible, and salted. Theon remembers enough winters when it had been him doing that, all winter, every day. A chance to earn a few extra dollars allowance, a chance for Cat to get him out from under her feet for a while. Theon wonders who’s doing it now. Probably Rickon, he’s the only one still living at home. 

For a short moment he studies the little ceramic plate hanging just below the wreath. It shows seven stick figures, two big ones and five smaller ones in various sizes, all smiling and waving at the viewer. He starts counting them again out of habit, mother, father, kids. One, two, three, four, five kids. Not seven. The scribble above the drawing says, The Stark Family, and just like he used to when he was a kid Theon has to fight the notion to get out a pen and draw two more little figures. There had been seven kids living here – five Starks and two shadows. 

It’s a childish notion, and Theon sneers at his own idiocy. Some things never change. He presses the bell button, half-expecting to hear the usual cacophony of dogs barking excitedly and children’s voices quarreling over who gets to open the door, but those are the sounds of a time long gone. The only thing he can hear now are footsteps coming closer, then the hallway light goes on and a shadow approaches the door. The key turns in the lock and for a split second Theon wonders since when this door is being locked, before stretching his lips into a wide smile. 

“Theon,” Catelyn says, her own smile tired and worn. “You’ve come early.”

He _is_ early, by a whole day, he knows he is. But still, he can’t help hearing a slight reproach in her words, as if she’s not too happy to have him here for longer than necessary. Some things never change. 

“Cat,” he says, kissing the presented cheek before following her inside the warmth of the house. In the hallway she stops, looking at him with raised eyebrows until Theon catches on and toes off his boots, placing them neatly on a rack. When he straightens again her smile has vanished, she watches him with a sadness Theon understands all too well. How adamant she’d always been about the no-shoes-in-the-house rule, a constant nagging and warring. Theon would bet anything there are two pairs of shoes she would love to have anywhere now. 

The kitchen is softly lit when he steps inside, a large pot is simmering on the stove and the delicious smell of hearty soup is hanging in the air. Theon sniffs appreciatively, fighting the urge to go over and have a taste. He doesn’t. He’s just a guest, not a resident anymore. When they had been back here together, all of them, it hadn’t been much of a problem. Robb would go and peer in the pot, he’d say _, Theon, you have to taste this!_ and Cat would laugh and swat him with her dishcloth. 

“It’s for Christmas day,” Cat says into the uncomfortable silence. “Beef broth for the gravy.”

“It smells delicious,” Theon answers stiffly. They are standing around like wooden blocks, neither knowing what to do. Finally Cat sighs. 

“You’ve had a long journey, you must be tired. I made up Rickon’s room for you. He’ll arrive on Christmas Eve - he’s at the Umbers’ - and then he’ll stay in Bran’s room. Bran's coming tomorrow. The girls too, if Sansa can get Arya to be ready in time.”

This time her smile is genuine, as always when she’s talking about her kids. In those moments she exudes a warmth that is hard to stomach for Theon, something that reminds him of his own mother and all the things he cannot have. He bids her good night, walking through the living room and up the stairs. The walls of the staircase are littered with framed family photos, but Theon doesn’t look at them as he passes. On the first landing he doesn’t stop, continuing to the second floor, where his old room had been. It’s a walk-in cupboard these days, containing the overflow of shoes and coats and sports equipment of a large family. 

There are four more doors on the second floor. Sansa’s room, complete with a little en-suite because she hadn’t wanted to share the bathroom with ‘disgusting boys’. The other bathroom, the one for the disgusting boys. Robb’s room. Theon doesn’t need to open the door to know that it will look exactly like it had the last time he'd seen it, over six years ago. Bed unmade, books strewn everywhere, playstation controller on the floor in front of the TV. Theon is sure the same game is still in the console, listing Robb’s scores in GTA IV. 

The last door he ignores, there’s nothing of interest behind it. Probably a cupboard too nowadays. Theon walks down to the first floor again, turning left to what Ned had always called the Kiddie Zone. He passes Bran’s room, Arya’s – still with the ‘Stay Away!’ sign on the door, until he comes to Rickon’s at the end of the hallway. When he opens the door he’s surprised at how neat everything is. When he'd still been living here it had looked as if a bomb had exploded. Now it’s clean and tidy, the small bed is freshly made and the heating is turned on. 

Theon looks around. It’s late, but he isn’t tired. The fact that he’s here again acts like an energy drink, pumping adrenaline through his body. He walks over to the bookshelf, tilting his head to read the titles. Young adult fiction mostly, Hunger Games and Harry Potter, and a lot of children’s books. He pulls one out, _Five Go to Mystery Moor._ It can’t be Rickon’s, too old and worn. He finds that he’s right when he opens the first page. 

‘PROPATY OF ROBB STARK’, it says in the carefully drawn block letters of a first grader, and Theon smiles to himself. 

***

_“I am Julian, you are Dick,” Robb says, pointing at Theon. “Jon is George and Sansa can be Anne. Ghost is Timothy.”_

_“I don’t want to be George,” Snow mutters, pouting. “George is a girl.”_

_“A girl who dresses as a boy,” Robb points out. “And you have the curls.”_

_“Come on, Snow,” Theon says, “don’t be a spoilsport. You’re perfect for George, she’s as sulky as you are.”_

_“Please, Jon?” Robb’s blue eyes widen, he looks at his cousin pleadingly._

_Snow rolls his eyes, his grumpy face softening. “Alright, alright.”_

***

Theon snaps the book shut with a thud, putting it back on the shelf. Not the right reading material, too memory-riddled. Instead he grabs a different one, with a blue cover with snowflakes dancing across the spine. It looks brand-new, as if no one has ever touched it, and when Theon reads the author’s name he knows why. Bloody Dickens, with his grossly overrepresented _A Christmas Carol_. Theon doesn’t like Dickens, has hated him ever since being forced to read _David Copperfield_ in school. Some of the themes had hit a little too close to home. 

It’s still better than sitting around doing nothing, so Theon takes it to the bed, slumping down. It’s really small, one turn too much and he’d be on the floor. But the bedding smells nice, familiar, the same laundry detergent Cat has used since Theon can remember. He settles on his side, trying to get comfortable. There’s something poking him in the back though, and when he’s finally managed to wrestle it out from under the blanket, Theon doesn’t know if he should laugh or curse. 

It’s an old cuddly toy, a faded, green dragon plushie with its legs and wings sticking out in all directions. It has a dopey, mournful little smile on its snout and huge, glittery eyes. Theon turns it over in his hand, wondering how on earth it can have ended up here in Rickon’s bed. Had he pinched it when its owner had moved out? He remembers seeing it in another room, on a shelf though, not the bed. Theon brings it to his nose. It still smells like Jon, and for a moment the sense of comfort and longing is so strong it makes his eyes smart dangerously. 

***

_“I can’t believe you still have this.” Theon smirks, plucking the little dragon off the shelf. “What was its name again?”_

_“Aegon, and fuck off,” Jon grouses, mock-punching Theon’s arm. “It was a gift from my mum, of course I’m keeping it. Some people who have a heart – that’s the thing pumping blood through your body in case you haven’t heard – do like to keep memories of a loved one.”_

_“Now that’s just unfair, Snow. Of course I have a heart.” Theon grins. “Do you still cuddle with it when you’re here on the weekends? Take it to bed when you have nightmares? You can, if you want, I don’t mind. But you might want to cover its eyes later, little dragons shouldn’t see what I’m planning to do with you.”_

_“_ You _are a nightmare,” Jon mutters, grabbing the toy out of Theon’s hands. “And we can’t, not here. Someone could hear us. You’ll have to wait until we’re back at college.”_

_But when he does put the dragon back onto the shelf he makes it face the wall._

***

Fuck this. He shouldn’t have come. 

With an angry flick of his wrist Theon catapults the dragon out of bed and across the room, turning to the book. He flips it open, reading the first page. 

**PREFACE**

**I have endeavored in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humor with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.**

**Their faithful Friend and Servant, C.D.**

**December, 1843**

What a pretentious fucker.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Morning! 
> 
> I hope you are not put off by how Theon behaves - he's really not in a good place.

Breakfast is a rather silent affair. Theon has mostly spent the night trying to make sense of the fucking Dickens, and now he’s dead tired, sipping his black coffee with disdain. Cat is slowly eating her yoghurt, every now and then glancing regretfully at the impressive spread she’s arranged. Ham, eggs, cheese, fresh bread rolls… Theon does feel a little bad, but he’s never hungry in the morning, something she should’ve remembered. But then his habits have never been a priority. 

He excuses himself after finishing his second cup, mumbling something about going to catch up with old friends. Cat nods, getting up to put the unused plates and cutlery away. 

“You could visit the market if you like,” she says. “We’re going to go together when everyone is here, but…” She turns her back on him, busying herself at the sink. “You can take my key, it’s the one with the little metal fish.”

Theon grits his teeth. If she doesn’t want him to go with the family, she could just say so instead of beating around the bush. Plucking her key from the holder, he marches out without a word of goodbye. Fuck this. He should’ve known. He shouldn’t have come. There’s fresh snow sprinkled on the pathway, and a part of Theon revels in the fact that it’s not his problem, not anymore. 

He drives into town without a real plan where he’s going. For a while he just cruises, like they did when he first got his licence, stupid boys high on all the possibilities opening up before them. Theon grins to himself. The most they had ever gotten out of their wonderful new freedom had been going to the McDonalds twenty miles away. Real daredevils, they’d been. He drives past the local park, occupied by a hostile-looking gang of teenagers. Theon wonders. Did they come across like that too when they were young, he and Robb and Jon? 

The cafe young and horny Theon had taken his various dates to looks the same, and he can make out hopeful couples sitting in the windows, holding hands while their drinks go cold. Stupid little idiots. It’ll all lead to nowhere, half of them will leave for college and never come back, the other half will get preggers at sixteen and be stuck here forever, get married early and quickly divorced and wish they would’ve left too. 

In the end he does go to the Christmas market. It’s not that impressive, a dozen stalls assembled around the little church yard. But it seems to be popular. There are a lot of people queueing at one stall selling hot drinks and red-cheeked kids are crowding around a life-sized wooden nativity scene with what looks like a real donkey. The whole place has an air of cheeriness, despite the cold. Theon parks his car at the cemetery parking lot, stretching when he gets out. 

It’s really cold. He begins to shiver almost immediately, cursing his inadequate outfit. His coat is nice and elegant, relatively warm and good enough for the city, but here in the country it’s not nearly warm enough. He has neither gloves nor a scarf, and the only hat he owns is packed away somewhere in his flat. In theory he should have some winter gear stowed at the Starks’, but he’s sure Cat has thrown out his stuff long ago. Maybe donated it. Whatever, he’ll buy some shit. 

Theon lets his gaze wander over the first few stalls, carrying tacky wood carvings, mostly cute little animals and moanful-looking saints. One has Christmas decorations, baubles in various sizes and other glittery knickknack. Theon stops for a moment, taking one of the baubles in hand. It’s a light shade of blue, adorned with glittering snowflakes. The effect is that of a windowpane covered in frost. 

“Those are hand-painted,” a voice interrupts his musings. “Twenty apiece for the bigger ones, fifteen for the medium – oh.”

Theon looks up. The young woman’s pale face is reddening fast, her brows tightly knitted together, mouth pinched like a chicken’s arse. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” she hisses, crossing her arms before her chest and glaring at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m on a mission to find the ugliest Christmas bauble in the country. Seems we have a winner.”

“Still an asshole, I see?” 

“Kyra,” Theon sighs, fingers tightening around the glass sphere. “Just leave it, okay?”

“ _You bit me so hard it scarred,_ ” she hisses, leaning forward over the display. “And then you dumped me!”

“And you were so desperate for cock you agreed to everything and kept calling for months afterwards.” Theon shrugs. “Not my problem, darling.”

“Because I _loved_ you, you hear me? I was _in love_ with you.”

“Not my problem either.” Theon looks down at the bauble he’s still clutching. “This is really the cheapest shit. Here,” and he throws it onto the board, missing narrowly. He’s already turning to go, hesitating when he hears the glass breaking. The shards are still glittering. With a last shrug Theon stalks away. 

What a fucking disaster. 

After stopping by the local supermarket for some cheap gloves and a scarf, Theon returns to the Starks. Where he’d been parked in the morning stands now a bright red SUV, and Theon feels relief pooling in his stomach. The girls are here, or at least, Sansa is here. Which means he doesn’t have to make small talk with Cat anymore. She’ll be occupied mothering her brood. 

The path to the house is cleared again, Theon notices absentmindedly. He hasn’t even reached the door when it flies open and a moment later his arms are full of someone tall and warm, brilliant red hair obscuring his view and a tight embrace squishing him to pulp. Theon stands very still, waiting for it to be over. 

“Mum said you’re here, but I didn’t want to believe it before I’ve seen it for myself,” Sansa says when she’s finally released him from her grip, beaming at him. “I’m so happy to see you again, hey…”

And with that she hugs him again, thankfully shorter this time. Theon throws her a few side glances as he walks into the house beside her. She’s changed, but not that much. The characteristic features are still the same, her mother’s red hair, blue eyes and freckled nose, her father’s height and confident posture. She looks well, obviously feeling good in her own skin. She’s chatting while Theon takes his boots off, when they go on into the kitchen, about a thousand little things Theon’s not really interested in. 

“Hey, dumbass,” says someone from the kitchen table, and Theon’s eyes widen in shock as he recognizes Arya. She’s grinning up at him, legs outstretched as she lounges in her chair. She’s changed a _lot._ The scrawny little girl has grown up, looking exactly like Ned’s sister Lyanna does in one of the photos on the staircase. The similarities are remarkable, dark hair and eyes and a mischievous smile. 

“Language,” Cat cries from the living room, sounding more happy than reproachful. 

“Hey, Underfoot,” Theon says, using the old nickname he’d invented for her back when she’d been a kid and always in everyone’s way. He takes a seat next to her, pinching her arm. “Curious, you don’t look like a grasshopper anymore.”

“Curious, you still look like a prick.”

Arya winks and Theon grins, feeling at ease for the first time since he’s arrived. This is an old ritual. He just opens his mouth to retort in kind, when the front door opens and an all too-familiar voice calls out to them. 

“Cat? Sansa? I’ve brought a load of firewood, can someone help me carry it into the garage?”

Theon’s whole body goes rigid as the door from the hallway opens, revealing Jon fucking Snow. 

“There you are, Sans,” he says, hovering in the doorway, rubbing his hands. “Grab your coat and get a move on, I have loads…” Jon trails off as his gaze falls on Theon, for a moment he seems frozen in shock – and then he smiles, his whole face lighting up as if he can’t hold it back. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. 

***

_“Hey,” Jon says, shaking his wet hair. He smiles. “I didn’t know you’d be here so early. Is Robb upstairs?”_

_“Yeah, he’s unloading his dirty clothes. Cat nearly had a heart attack when she saw the amount.”_

_Theon gets up, throwing a glance into the living room to see if the coast is clear before stepping over and drawing Jon in his arms._

_“Hey, Snow,” he mutters, nosing along Jon’s stubbled jaw before claiming his lips in a deep kiss. “You’re wet.”_

_“It’s raining,” Jon says, coming back for another little kiss before stepping out of Theon’s embrace. “Not here, you oaf. If Catelyn got wind of this…”_

_“She’d get the shock of her life,” Theon grumbles. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks, Snow, I’m starving!”_

_“Not my fault you were away,” Jon retorts. “You were the one who fucked off to some birdshit-stained rock you call an island.”_

_“You could’ve come with me,” Theon reminds him, making a grab for Jon’s waist. “I missed you.”_

_“Same,” Jon says, letting Theon catch him for another kiss. “We'll be back in the city soon. Just two days.”_

_“I’ll never make that,” Theon wails, pretending to faint onto a chair. “You can’t expect me to – hey, what about Easter Mass?”_

_“What of it?” Jon frowns, looking confused._

_“Well, the house will be empty, right? The Starks are good kids, always accompanying their mother on holidays.”_

_“Greedy bastard.” Jon sighs. “You know I have to go as well.”_

_“Spoilsport,” Theon grouses. “Can I at least have another kiss?”_

***

Theon blinks, the memory dissolving. “Snow.” He nods stiffly, getting to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a phone call to make.” And with that he flees upstairs. 

Of course Jon finds him, as Theon knew he would. He’s so predictable, probably still wants things between them to be amiable. Well, tough luck, Theon can’t stand the sight of him. 

“It’s good to see you,” Jon says from the door to Rickon’s room, leaning against the frame. “Can I come in?”

“I’m rather tired,” Theon says, trying to look anywhere but at Jon. He doesn’t want to see the concerned look in his eyes, the familiar mouth, the soft curls. 

“I didn’t know you would be here. If Cat had told me I–”

“Wouldn’t have come?” Theon interrupts, voice dripping with venom. “Believe me, if I’d known I’ll have to see your long face here I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Jon doesn’t answer, and Theon finally braves a look. Jon is standing there, hands dangling at his sides, hurt clearly written across his face. 

“Theon,” he says, making a step into the room and Theon can’t take it anymore. 

“Fuck off, Snow,” he spits. “I’m not in the mood for your needy bullshit. _Please, Theon_ ,” he drawls mockingly, trying to imitate Jon’s voice. “ _love me, hold me, I’m so alone…_ Boohoo,” he concludes icily, looking Jon straight in the eye. 

“You’re an asshole, Greyjoy,” Jon says quietly. His voice is calm but his hands are trembling, eyes shining suspiciously and then he’s gone, door slamming shut. 

Theon gets up on unsteady feet, stumbling over to the door and pressing his hands against it, as if trying to make sure it’s really closed. A part of him wants to rip it open, run after him, tell him he’s sorry, wipe the pain from his face. He stays where he is, leaning against the wood until everything bubbles over and he lunges, hitting the wall with a frustrated cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon goes too far and gets a visitor.

When Theon wakes up the next day it’s already early afternoon, he’s not feeling well, as if his mood has plummeted further during the night. Everything seems darker than usual, and for a moment he contemplates just going back to sleep. What should he even get up for? More shit, more being the third wheel in what’s left of a once happy family, more memories of a time he can’t get back, more glimpses and reminders of something he never wanted and doesn’t deserve anyway… What for? 

He does get up eventually, refusing to let that ominous darkness get the better of him. It’s hard work, but he manages to drag himself into the bathroom, standing under the hot stream until it starts to get lukewarm. While he’s toweling himself dry he can hear a strange scraping sound coming from the little bathroom window. Theon looks out listlessly, his gaze falling on Jon, of fucking course, clearing the path from the snow that’s fallen in the night. Theon scoffs, turning away. So typical, still helping a woman who hadn’t given three fucks about him growing up.

Snow the eternal martyr. What a joke. 

Coming down he finds Sansa and Cat in the kitchen, poring over a worn-looking recipe book, red heads put together as they discuss the respective qualities of different sorts of pumpkins and squashes. Sansa looks up when he walks past them, giving him a bright smile that seems false and too cheerful. How can she smile like that? Has she forgotten how incomplete they are, doesn’t she _miss_ her brother? Doesn’t she think of him everytime she looks in a fucking mirror? In that moment he loathes her. 

“Good morning,” she says. “Coffee? I can make you one in a moment, I’ll just–”

“Don’t bother,” Theon cuts her off sharply, waving a dismissive hand. “I can make my own coffee, I’m not your charity case.”

“Sorry,” Sansa says, blue eyes widening in shock. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Invite me so I won’t be awwwwl alone on Christmas, poor Theon, we’ll pretend we want him around so he’ll feel better!”

“Theon, I think you should go for a walk,” Catelyn says quietly, laying a comforting hand on Sansa’s arm. “Get some fresh air. It’s too late for lunch, you’ve slept so long... but we’ll have fish for dinner, at eight, if you want.”

“I’m off.” Theon shakes his head, turning away from them, doesn’t want to see those two pairs of blue eyes, one sad, one reproachful. “Don’t even know why I came in the first place.”

“Because I asked you to.” Sansa’s voice is gentle, as if she’s talking to a spooked animal. “Mum’s right. Go for a walk, calm down. And then come back, okay?”

“Don’t count on it.” His throat is tight with desperate anger, he can’t breathe. He stumbles out into the hallway, fumbling his feet into his boots. He nearly runs outside, pushing past Jon still occupied with clearing the path, ignoring his surprised call. “Leave me alone,” he mutters, hands shaking so hard he barely manages to get the key into the car door. “Just leave me the fuck alone!”

He’s halfway out of town when the anger evaporates so of a sudden Theon gets dizzy for a moment; he pulls over onto the hard shoulder, bringing the car to a halt. His hands on the steering wheel are still shaking, his breath goes fast and ragged and he can’t get her eyes out of his mind. Sansa’s eyes, the same colour and shape as her brother’s, and he imagines how Robb would look, what Robb would say if he saw him like this, heard how he spoke to his family. 

He would be horrified. 

Guilt surges up in him, for how he’s behaved, for what he said, even if he’s right. He doesn’t want their pity. In the last six years he’s been alone all the time, except for Asha’s welfare checks, and the women and men he takes home when the darkness gets too thick. Not that it helps for long, but it’s exactly what he wants. They don’t need him to hold them, or love them, or do anything but make them come. Not lately though. Lately he can't even stand that much.

And he doesn’t need anyone either. Not since his best friend has died. 

Theon curses, hitting the wheel with his palms. He has to go back, even if he hates every second of it, even when they wish he was gone. Even with Jon there, the last person on earth he wants to be around, the most dangerous of them all. He has to survive this one fucking Christmas, then he’ll fuck off and be rid of them once and for all. A goodbye of sorts, not for them, not for him, but for his best friend. For Robb. 

He stops by a small Asian mini mart, buying a couple bottles of cheap whisky and a box of Quality Street. He’s not in the mood for fish, or company. Unfortunately, the number of people has grown since his outing and when he comes in they’re all sitting around the kitchen table, the girls and Catelyn, Bran, and Jon, as if he belongs, as if he’s part of the family all of a sudden. But then maybe he is, maybe things have changed and he’s taken Robb’s place. 

“Hey, Theon,” Bran says in his serene voice, wheeling his chair from the table to shake Theon’s hand. “I hope you’re well?”

Theon just shrugs, eyeing the going-ons on the table. They’re playing Trivial Pursuit. Bran’s little token has nearly all the pieces while the other ones look very blank. 

“Concentrate, Sans,” Jon says, eyes flickering to Theon briefly before he looks back at his card. “What was the name of the Bay of Dragons before Queen Daenerys’ arrival?”

“Fuck,” Sansa says after a minute. Theon wants to throttle her. It’s so fucking easy. He itches to tell her, or whack her over the head for her blatant disinterest in any history but the North’s. “I give up,” she smiles, and Theon can’t hold back.

“Slaver’s Bay, you idiot,” he says impatiently, and before anyone can tell him to fuck off he does so by himself. They could’ve asked him to play. They could at least _pretend_ to want him there, couldn’t they? Footsteps come up the stairs behind him but he doesn’t stop until he’s in front of Rickon’s room, where he turns around with a jolt. Of course it’s bloody Jon, a concerned expression on his face. 

“What,” Theon says tiredly. “What do you want _now_ , Snow?”

“I wanted to ask if you’re okay. And…” Jon hesitates, glancing up at Theon questioningly. “Don’t you want to come down a bit? We could play in teams, Bran versus the rest of us… We might stand a chance then. You used to be quite good.”

“Stop it before I break into tears,” Theon drawls. “You can take your pathetic acting skills back downstairs. And stop pestering me, Snow. I’m really sick of your fucking face.”

He shuts the door right into Jon’s stupid, hurt face, repressing the urge to hit the wood. His knuckles still smart from yesterday. With a sigh he leans against the wall, getting out one of his bottles, and starts to drink. 

“Fuck you, Jon,” he mumbles when the room starts to look softer, the darkness starting to lift. “Fuck you to hell and back.”

A loud clap lets Theon look up, and he screams in horror as he takes in the figure lounging on his bed. Dull black hair, streaked with white, one steel-blue eye glittering with mirth, the other nothing but an empty socket, grey, papery skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, mouth twisted in a horrible grin – it looks like something from a horror movie, and Theon carefully sets the whisky down on the floor. He’s definitely had enough. 

“Bravo,” the hallucination says, clapping its hands together again, like a slow, mocking applause. “You really showed him, nephew! You have more of the true Greyjoy spirit than I thought.”

“Wha–” Theon blinks, rubs his eyes. The room wavers, but the creature on the bed stays where it is, grinning more widely, lips cracking over bone-white teeth. “Uncle… Uncle _Euron_?”

“Indeed,” the horror version of Theon’s uncle replies, giving him a thumbs up. Theon gasps, the hand is nothing but bone with bits of dried skin hanging from it. The creature cackles. “I know, I know, I’ve seen better days. But that’s what happens when you’re dead, or at least when you died like me.”

“I… I didn’t know you were dead,” Theon mutters, trying to focus his swimming gaze on the hallucination. “When… I mean… when?”

“Few months ago, hit on the wrong girl in the wrong bar. At the moment my body is rotting on some garbage dump in Sao Paulo.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Theon’s head is starting to hurt, pounding as if a drum is sitting right in the middle of his brain. “And to what… to what do I owe the pleasure of your…” He gesticulates at his uncle’s figure. “...appearance?”

“Ah, my dear boy.” Euron sits up among a cloud of dust ascending from his ripped, dirty suit. “I wish I could say it was just a friendly visit, you know, catch up with the family.” He bends his head, accompanied by an ominous cracking sound that makes Theon’s stomach lurch. “I’m afraid I’ve been sent to warn you.”

“Warn,” Theon parrots stupidly, “warn? What for?”

“Gimme that.” Euron angles for the whisky bottle, putting it to his dry lips, and swallows, and swallows, and swallows – a low, gurgling sound has Theon look down and he gasps when he sees the whisky – most of it – leaking out through a bloody hole in Euron’s suit. “Got stabbed in the stomach,” Euron explains casually. “Makes this a whole lot less fun, I assure you.”

Theon watches the whisky drench his uncle’s clothes, the bedsheet, soaking into the mattress beneath. It’s so surreal, surely the strangest dream he’s ever had, drunk or not. 

“Now, listen here, little Theon,” Euron continues. “You’re an asshole, a giant fucking asshole. Don’t interrupt me, boy, you know it’s true,” he says when Theon wants to protest. “I’m proud of you, I really am. Not at all the pussy I feared would become of you. You've grown rather like me.” Euron grins fondly. “You need no one, you want no one, you do what you want and piss on everyone else.”

It’s not really pleasant, hearing it like this. Is he really what Euron says? So cold, so selfish, so hateful? He’s behaved like it, the last few days. The last few years. Maybe he is just that, an asshole. Theon lifts his chin defiantly. So what? 

“But it isn’t all sunshine and roses, dear boy.” Euron jugs the last of the whisky, to Theon’s regret. “You’ll die like me, too. Alone and hated. No one will care. No one will give a shit about you, dead or alive. And then you’ll rot like me, nothing but wormfood and an unpleasant memory of your peers.”

“So what?” Theon says it out loud this time, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “It’s like you said. I need no one. They can go fuck themselves, I’m better off alone anyway.”

“Ah, and here’s where you’re wrong. Don’t look so sceptical, boy, I didn’t believe it either. Wish I had taken a few different turns in life, stayed with my little Falia, made a few babies… then I would’ve died in my own bed, of old age, not in the gutter on a Brazilian street just because I couldn’t keep my cock in my pants. I would’ve had someone mourning me, and maybe I’d even be in a better place now. Not a walking, talking mummy, unable to stomach some goddamn whisky.”

It’s getting more bizarre by the minute, too much to really take in. It doesn’t sound like Euron at all, convincing Theon all the more that everything is just a whisky-induced dream. And dream-Euron doesn’t seem to be done yet. 

“You still have time, nephew,” Euron says, his voice taking on an urgent tone. “Turn it around, make a change. Do it, Theon, or you’ll end up like me. They’ll come for you, boy.”

“Who?” Theon demands, starting to get annoyed. “Who is coming for me?”

“What do you think?” Euron scoffs, swiping at the book lying on the bedside table. It lands at Theon’s feet, pages bent. _A Christmas Carol._ “The three Ghosts of Christmas of course,” Euron whispers.

“Yeah, sure.” Theon has had enough. He knew he shouldn’t have read the fucking Dickens, now the shit’s even infiltrating his intoxicated dreams! “Look, Uncle, this has been fun but I think you ought to fuck off now. I’m going to wake up sooner or later. Oh, and since you’re allegedly dead and all? Please tell Mr. Dickens he can go fuck himself from me.”

“Oh, my poor little nephew,” Euron says, cackling mirthlessly. “You need to turn your life around. Do it now, or it’ll be too late.”

He laughs, louder and louder, so loud Theon’s ears start to hurt, he presses his hands onto them, screwing his eyes shut. “Fuck off,” he shouts, “fuck off, fuck off, FUCK OFF!!!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, mucking things up some more.

He sleeps in the next day too, waking around three pm with the hangover of a lifetime and Rickon’s whole bed reeking of booze. Theon frowns. There’s a stain on the mattress… maybe he fell asleep with the bottle and spilled it… But when he scans the room, both bottles are standing upright on the floor beside the bed, empty. There’s something nudging his memory, a bad dream maybe. His gaze falls on a book lying spine up on the floor – and suddenly he remembers. 

The dream, the whisky, his uncle and an ominous warning to stop being an asshole or he’ll get the full Christmas Carol Ghost treatment. Theon shakes his head, swinging his legs out of bed and kicking the book away. It hits the wall with a satisfying thud. Fucking subconscious. Behave like an asshole, read Dickens and promptly it tells you you’re Scrooge. He’ll behave today, Theon resolves, and stay clear of the booze. Not least because Catelyn will murder him when she sees the bed. 

True to his word he’s as polite as can be, to the point where Cat asks him if he’s coming down with something. For a moment he wants to snap back, thank her for always thinking the worst of him, but he manages to shut his trap, just grins and shrugs. He plays cyvasse with Bran, helps Sansa hang up some garlands on the patio without pointing out that no one’s going to see them anyway and collects Cat’s ordered turkey. It also helps that Jon hasn’t shown his face all day. Maybe he finally got the not so subtle hint. 

For dinner they have roast chicken and potato salad, and Theon eats as much as he can, the last couple days taking their toll. He compliments Cat’s cooking, earning a sceptical smile from her and a hopeful one from Sansa. But when they scatter around the living room to watch a Christmas Special of _Highgarden Abbey_ , Theon decides his time is up. There’s a limit to what he can withstand, and this is it. It’s still early, too early to go to bed, and he’s way too sober to face the fucking Dickens again. Better get something else, anyway, in case his mind decides to torture him with nightmares again. 

There had been a book series he’d loved as a teenager, about some sort of urban mercenary called Repairman Jack. Robb and he had nearly inhaled them everytime a new book had come out, sneaking into each other’s rooms after curfew to discuss them. They should still be around somewhere, and since they haven’t found their way into Rickon’s Den of Stolen Things, there’s only one place where they can be. Theon bids everyone a good night, slowly trudging up the stairs. 

He doesn’t want to go in there, not really. There’ll probably be an onslaught of memories waiting to rain down on his head, and Theon’s not really in the mood for that. On the second floor he hesitates. Maybe he can find some other books. But he goes on until he’s in front of the door, fingers touching the handle – when he notices the light shining out from under the door. Slowly, carefully, Theon pushes the handle down, shoving the door open. There’s someone already in there. 

For a split second Theon’s heart stops – a ridiculous surge of hope – and then it starts beating again, too fast, when Jon lifts his head from his arms and looks up at Theon. His eyes are red and swollen, mouth pulled into a frown, and before Theon can stop himself he’s entered and walked over to the bed. He stops, doesn’t know what to say or do, waiting for Jon to be the first to move. Jon stares at him for a long while before he sighs, driving a hand through his curls. 

“Don’t say it, okay?”

Theon says it anyway. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“I know.” Jon looks away, hugging his knees to his chest. “It’s just… there are days when I miss him so much I can’t help myself. When I need to talk to him about… about things. Ask for his advice.”

“Does he ever answer you?” 

Jon shakes his head. 

“Yeah,” Theon says. He sits down heavily, next to Jon, on Robb’s bed. He smiles sadly. “Me neither.”

They sit there in silence for a long while, each dwelling on their own thoughts, caught up in their own heads, their own memories. Only this time it’s Theon who breaks the silence. 

“Remember when we used to hang out here, the three of us? We never did it in my room, or yours. Only Robb’s.”

“Yeah, no wonder.” Jon snorts inelegantly. “His room is double as big as the cupboards we had.”

“Quite literally,” Theon mutters. “Has yours been turned into one too?”

Jon shakes his head. “Sewing room. Crammed full of yarn and needles and fabrics.”

Theon laughs. “I don’t even know why we’re surprised. She was measuring the walls when I was still sleeping in there.”

“Sometimes I was worried she’d sell my bed when I was away at a friend’s for the weekend.” Jon chuckles, propping his chin up with his hand. “She’s not a bad person, you know? She loves her children so much there’s just no place for anyone else.”

“You seem on good terms these days.” Theon strokes the quilt covering the bed, plucking at a loose thread. “When did that happen?”

“I moved back here after… I quit college. Didn’t want to be alone in the city, without Robb, without…” Jon doesn’t continue, just shrugs, but Theon knows how the sentence ends. His hand twitches as Jon continues. “I was lonely. She was too. We talked a lot.”

“You live _here_? In this house?”

“Gods, no.” Jon grimaces. “We’d kill each other. I’m renting a flat in town, above the cafe.”

“Is it better?” Theon asks brusquely, gaze fixed on his hand, outlining the patterns of a quilt patch. “Has it gotten better since you came here?”

“A little. Not that… it’s still pretty lonely.”

Jon’s voice fades at the last word and then Theon reaches out, breaching the gap, unable to stand the sadness in the air any longer, not even knowing if it’s his or Jon’s. At first, Jon doesn’t react, frozen in shock, but after a moment his fingers close around Theon’s. 

“I miss you,” Jon finally says. “I never–”

“Don’t.” Theon already regrets it, wants to take his hand back, but Jon tightens his hold, eyes desperate and full of a longing Theon knows too well. “It’s no use, Snow. I can’t give you what you want.”

“Theon…”

The name is layered with so much emotion it’s like a knife cutting him open, and with a violent jerk Theon breaks free. 

“You don’t get it, huh? I don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you. I don’t _love_ you. You were a nice distraction, for a while, but I’m not interested in a fucking ball and chain. You’re so needy, Jon.”

Jon stares at him as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, eyes wide and starting to fill with tears. Theon can’t take it anymore, and grins as widely as he can.

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer. All I ever wanted was your cock. And your mouth on _my_ cock. And your arse when it took my fancy. The rest? Lip service, to make you shut up. Hey, know what? If you want to take a last tumble, I’m game. For old times’ sake. And then you’ll promise you won’t bother me again, okay?”

Jon gets to his feet, shaking with rage. He towers over Theon still sitting down, and for a moment Theon is afraid Jon will strike him. But after a long pause, he just exhales carefully, fists unclenching. 

“You win, Greyjoy. I won’t come back here until you’re gone. You won’t see me again, I promise.” He laughs, a short, harsh bark. “I must be a masochist to even try.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving Theon with his demons and the silent ghost of his best friend, turning away from him in disgust. 

“You didn’t listen, boy.”

Theon’s head snaps up, an ice-cold feeling rising in his chest. He’s there, just like in the dream last night, sitting in Robb’s desk chair with his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. And if possible at all, he looks worse than the night before, a tear in his papery cheek where Theon can see his teeth, his remaining eye milky and dull. 

“I’m dreaming again,” he mutters to himself, “I must’ve fallen asleep on Robb’s bed.” Was the conversation with Jon a dream too?

“What, the tasty little treat you just threw away?” Euron grins, lips stretching and cracking open. “You’re even more of an idiot than I gave you credit for, nephew. If I had the fortune of bagging such a lovely thing I’d do my darndest to hold on to him. Another disadvantage of the whole being dead thing. Can’t wank to a pretty boy anymore. Pity, I tell you.”

“Don’t–” Theon starts, but Euron just laughs, waving a bony hand. 

“Don’t worry, little Theon, he won’t come back. You did a good job this time, he’s finally got it. Despite everything I told you yesterday.” He tilts his head mock-sympathetically. “You won’t do as you’re told. You won’t turn your life around, too much of a coward to take what is offered to you. Afraid you’ll stop being miserable all the time, eh? There was your chance. And you blew it, spectacularly so.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle,” Theon says defiantly. “I am what I am.”

“Dead is what you are,” Euron snaps as he surges forward, suddenly only inches from Theon, skeleton hands gripping his collar, cold, mouldy breath hissing in his face. “Your time is up, boy, and they’ll come for you.” As quick as he’s moved towards Theon, Euron is back in the chair, sighing theatrically. “Expect the first one tomorrow, at midnight.”

Theon blinks, again and again as dust starts to swirl around Euron, obscuring him from view. 

“Farewell, little Theon,” is the last thing he hears before he’s alone again. Alone and unable to fight the feeling of dread taking hold of him. 

_Tomorrow, at midnight._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alienating yet more people, poor Theon. Consequences are coming.

They put up the tree the next day, the twenty-second. Everything in this house is done in exactly the same way as it always has been, the traditions continue as if they were still the happy family from back then. Theon helps, despising the festive atmosphere, getting thicker and thicker with every ornament moving onto the tree. 

They do it together, all of them. Arya is sitting cross-legged on the floor, sifting through the boxes. Whenever she finds something worthwhile she gives it over to Cat who inspects the baubles for cracks and fingerprints, giving them over to Sansa who finds a place for them on the branches. Bran in his chair is covered in lametta, a garland hanging around his neck like a glittery boa. He’s fiddling with the tiny bulbs of the holiday lights and replacing the broken ones. Theon, the tallest, is tasked with decorating the upper branches under Sansa’s watchful gaze.

After a while Theon starts to feel strange, as if something’s missing. But it’s only when Sansa gives him the angel to set on top that he figures out what it is. It’s too silent. Not that it’s completely quiet, they’re chatting, sometimes Arya will curse when she pricks her finger on a stray decoration hook – but there’s no singing. No one sings. They used to do that while doing the tree, carols and modern pop songs. And it had always been Robb who had started it. 

Theon looks at each of them in turn, twisting the angel in his hands. Finally he catches Sansa’s gaze. _No music?_ he mouths at her. She smiles sadly as she bends closer. 

“We somehow can’t bring ourselves to do it,” she whispers. “The first time after Robb’s – it had been Jon who… well, you know, he’s totally tone-deaf and it sounded like banging a sack of cats against the wall and then we all started laughing.” She pauses, looking at him strangely, somehow seeming hopeful. “Since then he’s always been the one getting us going, but seeing as he’s not here...”

Jon again. Wriggling himself into the picture, taking a place that isn’t his to take. Resentment bubbling up in him, Theon gives her a slightly strained smile. 

“I need some fresh air.”

With that Theon reaches out and sticks the angel on top of the tree, a little askew, and marches out. He doesn’t go far, only to his car where it’s parked behind the garage building. They can’t see him there from the house. He opens the passenger door, rummaging through the glove box until he’s found it: his emergency pack of fags. Fingers shaking he tries to light one, cursing when the lighter he’s kept in the pack doesn’t work. 

“Take mine.” 

Theon turns to look at Cat, puzzled at her sudden appearance. She’s holding out a metal zippo, a burning cigarette in her other hand. Theon takes the zippo, staring at her curiously while he lights his fag. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he says as he gives it back. He takes a cautious first drag and immediately starts coughing. 

“And I didn’t know you stopped.” She purses her lips, inhaling deeply. “I was waiting to smell something since you arrived, like when you started smoking as a kid. Always standing at the open window, thinking you were so clever.” Catelyn snorts. “I always smelled it immediately.”

“What, I come back a grown-ass adult, and automatically you assume I’m doing stupid stuff again like smoking inside? Knowing how much you hate it? Which apparently isn’t the case anymore,” Theon adds with a curt nod to her hand holding the cigarette. He’s pissed. 

“Could you please stop flying off the handle at every little thing? No wonder you feel you’re being treated like a teenager, you behave like one.” Ignoring Theon’s glower she snips the ashes to the ground, taking another drag. “Where’s Jon?” she asks once she exhales the smoke.

Theon stares at her, completely blindsided by the abrupt change in topic. “How would I know?” he finally manages to say. 

“He came storming down yesterday and muttered something about not coming again until Christmas is over. The stupid boy always had a soft spot for you, and I just wondered if something happened.”

 _I happened_ , Theon thinks, but he just shrugs, looking down on his shoes. 

“Hm.” Cat’s foot appears in his view, stomping out her cigarette butt before she bends to pick it up alongside Theon’s. “Better get inside again, it’s freezing. And,” she turns around, already on her way back inside, “no smoking in the house.”

Theon lingers for another moment after she’s gone, tempted to light another fag. But the one he’s had is already making his throat feel scratchy, adrenaline rushing through him. He’s stopped smoking five months ago. Now he doesn’t even know why. It’s not as if it mattered one way or another. Theon shoves the pack into his back pocket. Just in case he needs it again. 

Catelyn isn’t the only one to ask about Jon. Arya corners him next, not so much inquiring, more like hissing threats at him, promising hell on earth should Jon really decide not to attend Christmas because of Theon. Bran makes little comments all through their afternoon cyvasse session, distracting Theon so much he loses way faster than usual. But the worst has to be Sansa, following him into the garden when Theon sneaks out to have another emergency fag after nicking a pack of matches from the kitchen.

“Ugh, I thought you quit,” she says, wrinkling her nose. She’s got a huge wooly thing wrapped around her shoulders like a scarf, and when she notices how he shivers she rolls her eyes, unwrapping it a little and draping the longer bit around Theon’s neck. “Blow that in the other direction, will you,” she says, making a face. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Theon answers, obligingly holding the cigarette away from her. The shawl thing is warm, and cuddly, and apparently long enough to wrap a family of five up in it. “Can I do anything for you or are you just that desperate for my company?”

“Actually, I wanted to ask if I can do anything to help _you,”_ Sansa says, giving him an unimpressed look. “After yesterday–”

“Not the Jon thing again,” Theon groans. He’s sick of the word itself by now. “Look, you of all people should know that–”

“You decided to be your asshole self again? Yeah, I figured.” Sansa waggles her hand in front of her face, giving an accusing little cough until Theon rolls his eyes and lets the cigarette fall into the grass. Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Better pick that up or mum’ll have your hide.”

“And why do you assume that I was the asshole?” Theon asks sourly. 

“Because I know you. And I know Jon. He doesn’t have one assholish bone in his body.”

That’s too true to argue with, so Theon says nothing. For a while they just stand there, until Sansa starts shivering and Theon sighs, laying an arm around her. She rests her head on his shoulder, and for a moment it feels almost peaceful. Until Sansa has to ruin it. 

“You’re not happy,” she says quietly. “I wish you would talk to me. I want to help you.”

“I’m fine, okay?” Theon shoves her away, more gently than he actually wants to. He disentangles her scarf from his neck, stepping away, out of reach. “I don’t need any help. I’m getting by just fine on my own.”

“Stop rejecting us, Theon.” Sansa looks as if she’s about to cry, but to Theon’s relief she doesn’t. “Everyone needs other people. We’re here for you. You just need to let us in.”

“Not my style.” Theon smirks, but at seeing her disappointed face he sighs. “Look, Sans. I appreciate you inviting me, and I promised I’d come, so I’m here. But please don’t ask me again. You don’t need me here, ruining it for everyone. Leave me alone, okay?”

He stalks off towards the house, shoulders hunched around his ears against the cold, and the guilt. Of course he’s unhappy. Robb isn’t here and he’ll never be here again, and without him they are all just a bunch of people he used to live with for a time. They’re not his family. They don’t want him around, not really. It’s just the same reason he has for being here: a sense of duty. Robb would want it. But Robb isn’t here. 

Dinner is a rather silent affair that night, and Arya’s dark glares are making the stew somewhat hard to stomach. Theon is glad when his phone starts to ring, giving him an excuse to go out again. Quickly lighting his third cigarette of the day, Theon fishes his phone out of his pocket, looking to see who called, and groans when he sees his sister’s name on the display. He hesitates, on the verge of conveniently overlooking her call. But then she’ll just keep pestering him until she’s said her bit. 

“Hey,” he says when she picks up after a half dozen rings. “You called?”

“Hello, dear sister of mine, how are you? Oh _thank_ you, dear Theon, I am good. How about you?”

“Alright, alright.” Without wanting to Theon grins at her mocking tone. “I’m okay. Is there another reason for your call or was that it?”

“Oh, shut up. I wanted to ask if you’d like to come over for Christmas. We could get drunk under my cheap plastic tree and eat turkey sandwiches from Tesco on Christmas day. I could intr–”

“As enticing as that sounds, I fear I’m already otherwise engaged.” Theon pauses, wondering if he should even tell her. “I’m in Winterfell.” 

“Uh. Wow.” Ash doesn’t say anything else for so long Theon is about to hang up when she finally speaks again. “Didn’t think you’d ever go back there. Weren’t they always horrible to you?”

 _Oh, that’s right._ They used to talk like this years ago. Asha was always checking up on him. And, okay, on occasion he _may_ have exaggerated his hardships growing up in Winterfell. Mostly after Ned had grounded him for misbehaving, or when he had felt left out.

“I don’t get why you would go there instead of spending the time with me.” Asha sounds slightly pissed. “They’re not your family, you know. I am.”

Ah, there it is, the magical connection that makes her bother with him. Family. Blood. An obligation.

“Look, sis,” Theon says mockingly. “We both know you don’t want me there. I’d just be in the way when you get drunk and find yourself some holiday stud.”

“Okay, stop it, you little asshole!” Asha is really pissed now, nearly shouting into the phone. “Listen, I don’t have to ask you every fucking year! I know it’s hard to wrap your stupid head around it, but I actually _do_ ca–”

“Or,” Theon says, cutting her off mid-rant, “you could skip the middle step and just fuck a bottle of gin.”

For a moment there’s silence, then, “Fuck you,” Asha says, sounding tired and resigned.

After the phone call and with the feeling of having burnt yet another bridge, Theon goes to bed. He didn’t mean to be such an ass. It’s just… why does Ash have to keep pestering him? He knows the answer, kind of. Their mum. That and the fact that he’s the baby, and Ash has probably inherited their father’s blood-is-thicker-than-water-blablah. He hates it. He doesn’t want to be a chore on her list. Made sure baby Theon is still alive, check. It’s not as if she really cares about him. 

Once in bed Theon can’t sleep, catching himself looking at his phone every other moment. He longs for a cigarette. He hadn’t thought about his nightmares at all the whole day, only remembering when he saw the book still lying on the floor. One hour and forty-seven minutes until midnight. One hour and twelve minutes. Fifty-three minutes. Twenty-eight. Eleven. Two. One. Theon watches the numbers on his display change to four little zeros, tensing in awaital of… something. Anything. Nothing happens, and when the clock jumps to 00:01 he releases the breath he’s been holding. Ridiculous. Theon turns onto his back, ready to close his eyes and go to sleep–

“About time you looked my way,” the man next to the bed says, having appeared out of thin air. “I was starting to worry.”

He looks exactly like Ned Stark. 

Theon screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome the Ghost of Christmas Past!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the journey begin. First stop: Greyjoy Christmas. And while it starts out not too bad it does get bad pretty quick.

“Are you done?” Ned asks patiently when Theon’s voice finally gives out. “We have a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

“You’re dead,” Theon whispers hoarsely. “You can’t be here.”

“Right on the first account, wrong on the second. I’m dead, and as you can see I’m here. Didn’t a messenger tell you to expect me?”

“If by ‘messenger’ you mean the nightmares I had of my uncle’s rotting corpse,” Theon says, “he only said I’d get visited by three ghosts.”

“I’m a ghost,” Ned clarifies. “And I’m visiting.” Upon Theon’s lack of reaction he frowns. “I’m your Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” Theon mutters. “And let me guess, in the end Bran’ll jump from his wheelchair, make a somersault and say, ‘God bless us all’, or some shite.”

“That’d be a very un-Bran thing to say,” Ned muses. “Look, Theon, we shouldn’t procrastinate any longer. Lots to show you.”

“Will this stupid nightmare end if I just go along with it?” Theon sighs tiredly. “Because if so let’s get going.”

“Good.” And with that Ned takes Theon’s arm and the world twists around him, lights flickering past at breathtaking speed until they land with a thump outside of a big house. 

Theon oomphs, stumbling as his feet hit the ground. Shakily he straightens, gaze falling onto a little sign on the front garden wall, half obscured by a holly wreath. _Pyke House_ , it reads, and Theon turns to look at Ned Stark with a snort. 

“My family’s old house? Really? I thought you’re supposed to make me bawl and feel bad or something.”

“Why don’t we go have a look inside?”

Ned waves a hand towards the door, walking along the way until he reaches it – and goes right through the solid wood. Theon does a double take, then shrugs. It’s a dream, he thinks and walks after Ned. And crushes into the door with a sickening noise. He stumbles back, clutching his throbbing forehead where he’s hit it on the door. 

“What the…”

Ned’s head appears, eerily floating mid-air. “I’m a ghost,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not.”

Mumbling curses under his breath Theon tries the handle. To his surprise the door swings open, without creaking as if auditioning for a horror movie like he remembers. Come to think of it, the house looks different than he remembers. The hallway he’s standing in is littered with kids’ shoes and there’s a festive smell hanging in the air, baked apples if he isn’t mistaken. Theon walks further, past the kitchen door where he stops. It’s empty but there’s an array of dirty dishes waiting to be done, and the stovetop light is still blinking, indicating someone has cooked in here not too long ago. 

Now he can hear quiet voices from the living room and he walks on, stopping dead when he takes in the scene before his eyes. His father – or someone who looks a lot like his father only without the angry lines edged into his face – is sitting on the rug, a boy on each side of him. All three of them are watching a little electric train making its rounds, circling a big, beautifully decorated tree and a huge stack of presents. Theon steps closer, captivated by the look of fascination on the boys’ faces. 

“Your brothers, I take it?”

Theon jumps when Ned suddenly appears at his side, also watching the little train. 

“Yeah. Maron and Rodrik.” Theon shrugs. “I don’t remember them much, except that they were assholes.”

“They died quite young, didn’t they?”

“When I was about eight. They stole Uncle Vic’s car and crashed it. I remember him saying, _they can be glad they’re dead or I’d kill them myself!”_ Theon grins, earning a perturbed look from Ned. “What? It's funny!”

Ned only shakes his head, but just when Theon wants to tell him he’s joking, a musical voice drifts in from his parents’ bedroom. 

“Balon, it’s time for the boys to go to bed! Five more minutes, then I’m coming for them.”

Theon swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. All his attention is now focused on the bedroom door where a woman appears, holding a little girl by the hand. Her hair is a light colour, her skin so fair it seems to glow. She’s not pretty, not really, her features too strong, but her eyes are sparkling as she pulls the reluctant girl into the living room. 

“Come on, boys,” she says with a smile. “Tear yourself away. The sooner you go to bed, the sooner it’s Christmas and you can open your presents. And don’t you make a ruckus in the bathroom! I don’t want you to wake the baby.”

The baby… Theon watches his mother transfer the little girl – Asha, he realizes with a jolt – to Rod. She’s not having it, breaking free of his hold immediately. 

“I can go by myself,” she grouses, throwing a dark look at her oldest brother. 

Theon chuckles, a little startled. She can’t be older than four, but she’s already as fierce as the Ash he knows today. He watches the three of them tiptoe outside, watches Ron grinning at Rod before he purposely runs into a shoe rack. It results in an almighty crashing sound, and somewhere a baby – me, Theon thinks – starts to blare like a foghorn. 

“Ugh,” little Asha says, boxing Ron in the stomach. “Now the monster is awake.”

She stomps off and Theon follows, to a room at the end of the hallway and through a door into a tiny room containing a crib and a small bed. Asha drags a foot stool over to the crib, her little face angry as she climbs it to look into the crib. 

“Stop it, monster!” she shouts at the baby inside. “Shut up!”

Theon looks over her shoulder at his tiny self, bawling his eyes out, little fists clenched angrily, face red and pinched. And then it happens: at Asha’s word the blubbering stops, and baby Theon hiccups, gazing up at his sister. His eyes are curious, he waves a little fist at her – and smiles, a happy, toothless baby smile that makes Theon’s stomach tighten. 

Asha sighs. “That’s better. Go back to sleep, monster.”

And baby Theon yawns, eyes drooping. 

“Seen enough?” 

Theon flinches violently when Ned appears very suddenly yet again. He shakes his head. “I didn’t know – I don’t remember any of this.”

“Of course not. You weren’t even a year old, and babies have the memory of a goldfish. Thank god,” Ned adds, looking strangely sheepish. “I dropped Rickon once when he was a baby.”

“That explains a lot,” Theon mutters, and to his surprise Ned laughs. 

“He was perfectly fine, but I’m glad he couldn’t rat me out to Cat.” Ned smiles, somewhat sadly, then clears his throat. “On we go then.”

But they don’t go anywhere, they stay in the house and watch one Christmas after the other pass by. Theon watches his parents singing carols together, watches the light on his mother’s face, and the one in his father’s eyes whenever he’s looking at her. They had been happy. For a while. He watches himself and his siblings grow, watches them bickering, mostly with Ash. At one time he sees Maron tripping little Theon, about five at the time. But immediately Ash is there, helping him to his feet and kicking Ron’s shin in retribution. 

Then, after two more happy Christmases it happens. Or it must have happened in that year anyway. The warmth is gone from the house, there’s no tree, no presents, no delicious smell. His father is nowhere to be seen, but Theon’s mother is there, sitting in her favourite armchair, staring at a cold, empty fireplace. Theon’s heart aches for her. He wants to go over, console her, say something, anything to wipe the grief from her features. 

A door opens somewhere, and then they’re there, Ash and little Theon. Theon watches them trying to rouse their mother, get a reaction out of her, but it’s no use and finally Asha leads little Theon away, into the kitchen. Theon follows, struck by how fierce his sister’s face looks, too hard for such a young girl. 

“Was I bad?” little Theon asks dejectedly. “Father Christmas didn’t come this year. Is it my fault?”

“No,” Asha says curtly. “Father Christmas is an asshole.”

“I’m hungry,” little Theon whispers after a while and she sighs. 

“I know. Let’s see if I can find something to make you a sandwich.”

He can’t bear it any longer, leaving the kitchen and the house. Outside it has started to rain, the typical Island weather on Christmas. Theon holds his face up, letting the raindrops cool his skin. He remembers _this._ And the Christmases after. He doesn’t need to see them, and miraculously Ned doesn’t come to retrieve him. He hears it though, hears the shouts and cries, knows that his mother’s armchair is empty, and his father’s mind has started to turn. 

If he concentrated he’d hear the sound of a belt hitting its target, would hear bottles breaking and curses thrown around, would hear Asha arguing with Balon, would hear his own sobbing and pleading. He doesn’t concentrate, doesn’t listen. It’s in the past, there’s no use reliving it now. He can’t change the past. 

“You could change the future.”

This time Theon doesn’t startle when Ned appears next to him, he just shrugs and looks at him with a slight smirk. 

“Sure I could. Go and marry some nice, stupid girl, make a few babies and have the same thing happen all over again. No, thank you.”

“Here I come,” Ned says, pointing at a car stopping in front of them. A younger Ned steps out, walking to the door and rapping his knuckles firmly against the wood. “I was horrified at the state you were in. So thin and covered in bruises–”

“Yes, yes, you’re quite the hero,” Theon mutters. “A little sooner would’ve been lovely though.”

Ned just looks at him, disappointment plain on his face. 

“Let’s go. We still have some other places to visit.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Childhood memories. And a long overdue apology (yes Ned I'm looking at you)

“I thought we weren’t done yet,” Theon says grumpily when he realizes where Ned has beamed them next. “Not that I’m complaining, the sooner this nightmare ends, the better.”

Ned gives him a stern look, one that Theon remembers all too well. It indicates trouble if he doesn’t shut his trap and starts behaving immediately, and although Theon is an adult and Ned is a figment of his imagination, there’s still the weird impulse to be good and earn himself a seldom smile. So he totters along the path to the door in Ned’s wake, trying not to shuffle and drag his feet like a mutinous teenager. 

He realizes his mistake the moment they step inside. The hallway is absolutely crammed, the shoe rack overflowing with muddy boots, and he can hear the sound of children singing behind the door inside. Of course, Theon thinks resignedly. Stark Christmas. Not that they hadn’t been better than the last ones he’d had at Pyke House, but when you’re a foster child amidst an extremely happy, large family, the holidays tend to do a number on you. 

They’re all stuffed into the living room, the whole family including Catelyn’s brother and both of Ned’s. Theon searches the room until he spots himself, about eleven or twelve by the looks of it. He’s standing a little behind, leaving the front row to the smaller kids, Sansa and Arya and Bran. They’re kneeling on the carpet, eyes fixed on the illuminated tree, and the presents beneath. Theon chuckles. What a fucking giant heap of presents! He’s forgotten how _much_ there’d always been, but with that many children there had been a lot coming together. 

Theon looks around, only spotting Robb when he’s already started to wonder where he’s at. He’s seated on the couch, arm firmly around a smaller boy’s shoulders, and Theon’s heart takes a leap as he recognizes Jon. He doesn’t look merry at all, on the contrary, tears are streaming down his round cheeks and every now and then he hiccups. Robb peers down on his cousin every so often, stroking his arm or squeezing his shoulders, and Theon can see his younger self throwing them a disgruntled look. 

“That was Jon’s first Christmas without his mother,” Ghost Ned says just as the other Ned strikes up another carol. “My sister Lyanna had died that summer.”

“I was jealous,” Theon mumbles, more to himself than to Ned. “Robb was completely focused on him that Christmas, barely had time to play with me.”

Jon must be about eight in this scene, same as Robb, but he looks ridiculously tiny. His little face is a picture of silent desperation, and Theon mentally scolds his younger self for being such a childish dickhead, begrudging him Robb’s attention so much. Theon could’ve used someone like Robb when his mother had died. Well, he’d had Asha. She was grumpy and harsh, but she’d been there, like an anchor. 

“Why didn’t you take Asha in too?” he asks Ned, humming along to _Good King Wenceslas_ at his side. “I don’t remember.”

“She refused to leave your father,” Ned says calmly. “I wanted to get her out of there too, but that thirteen year old girl put her foot down and simply wouldn’t come. Someone’s got to keep him alive, she said. I couldn’t force her.”

“He wasn’t as much of a dick to her in the end.” Theon shrugs, grinning lightly. “He always had a soft spot for her, said she makes a better son than I ever could.”

“A cruel thing to say.”

“Well, yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious.” Theon rolls his eyes. Ned seems to suppress a smile at that. 

The family sings _Silent Night_ now, and slowly the scene starts to fade, only to come into being again in a slightly different constellation, just like it had happened before in Pyke House. It’s Christmas Day this time, not Christmas Eve, and there’s a huge chattering going on as everyone crowds together, all in their pyjamas, wishing each other a merry Christmas. Theon’s stomach tightens, he knows what he’s about to witness. And there he is, Memory Ned, hugging Robb tightly as he says the words. Kid Theon is standing behind Robb, awkwardly waiting for his turn. And Ned straightens, looks at him – and pats his shoulder. 

Theon turns away from the scene, coming face to face with Ghost Ned. His face is sad. 

“It wasn’t right of me to do that,” he says in a quiet voice. “To treat you so differently from my own children. I apologize.”

Theon looks into Ned’s eyes, dark and very much like Jon’s. They’re full of regret, but somehow he cannot believe it. 

“I’m not your son,” he finally says. 

“No. But you were a child living in my house. You were my responsibility. I thought I did enough.” Ned shakes his head. “Always making sure you’re well fed and clothed, you had your allowance and a lot of freedom… It wasn’t until too late that I realized that what I should’ve given you was warmth.”

“You’re right,” Theon says, “it _is_ too late.” 

He turns away brusquely, watching the younger kids and Robb drown in a mountain of wrapping paper while his kid self has already unwrapped his couple of presents. One of them is a brand new backpack, immensely popular in school at the time, the other is a beautifully illustrated edition of _The Lord of the Rings._ Theon remembers finding an envelope with a hundred quid between the pages later. They’re wonderful presents, thoughtful and not cheap, but young Theon doesn’t look happy at all. 

“Merry Christmas, Theon,” says a small voice in his back and Theon turns around, looking startledly at a ten-year-old Jon. It takes him a moment to realize Jon’s not talking to him but his younger counterpart, and with mixed feelings he watches himself returning the wish half-heartedly before stalking off. Little Jon stays behind with a dejected look on his face, turning to his own small pile of presents. He’s got more than Theon, but of course a lot less than the Stark kids, lacking the generous Tully relatives. 

Kid Jon’s eyes flicker to where Kid Theon has gone to, just now getting bear-hugged by Robb. He looks as if he wants to go over too, but after a moment of deliberation he takes his stuff and shuffles from the room. No one notices, and Theon has to repress the urge to go after Jon himself. Wouldn’t do any good, since he can’t see him. 

Ned is looking after Jon as well, mouth pulled into a frown that’s so similar to his nephew’s that Theon has to look away. 

“He always did that,” Ned says. “At first I went after him, tried to get him to come down again but he wouldn't have it. Said no one was missing him anyway.”

“Stubborn little idiot,” Theon says heatedly. “That’s not even true! Robb loved Jon, and Arya was completely smitten with him from the moment he came here.”

“Aye,” Ned concedes. “But what he was really missing was a mother’s love.”

They both look at Cat, sitting on the floor and helping Bran with an archeological kit. Her belly is rounded, her face glowing happily. She clearly doesn’t give two fucks about the boy up in his room all by himself, on Christmas. 

“I don’t get it,” Theon mutters, “how he can forgive her for being like that, for ignoring him like that all his childhood. I couldn’t, if I were in his shoes.”

“Jon is a good person,” Ned says. “It’s as simple as that. Despite the loss and hardship in his life he’s never lost the ability to give. And love.”

As simple as that… He’s not a good person, Theon knows he isn’t. He hurts people wherever he goes. People who don’t deserve it, good people, like Jon. But there’s no use in trying to be different. It is what it is, and by staying around he’ll only hurt them more. It’s not as if Theon could give them what they want. He can’t give the Starks Robb back, he can’t go and pretend to be someone he’s not for Jon’s sake. It doesn’t matter. They’ll get over it, forget he even exists. 

Christmas after Christmas flows past and Theon watches, watches how they all grow and get older, watches the fun they have, the warmth they share, watches Robb being in the center of everything like some kind of sun they all orbit around. Theon’s eyes stay dry but his heart hurts, and for a moment he doesn’t know for whom. 

At last there comes a very different Christmas. Everyone is quiet and subdued, tear tracks on their faces. It’s the first Christmas without Ned. Catelyn, ashen-faced, tries to pull herself together as good as she can, but there’s no festiveness whatsoever in the air. He watches himself and Jon, each keeping to themselves, both on the sidelines, not feeling they have a place in the family’s mourning. Had he mourned Ned? Theon studies his younger self’s face closely, pale and drawn, eyes dry. He doesn’t remember feeling anything but a sense of regret, and a deep sympathy for Robb.

Theon looks to the side, to the Ned still there with him. He’s silently observing his family trying to pull together a semblance of the happy holidays they used to have. His eyes are wet, grief radiating off him. 

“Do you miss it?” Theon asks before he can think better of it. 

“More than I can say.” Ned blinks, wipes his eyes. “I’d give anything to be able to see them one more time, talk to them, tell them how much I love them.”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, appear to them?”

“It doesn’t work like that, I fear.” Ned sighs. “I am only appearing to you. Someone, somewhere, thinks you deserve another chance.”

Theon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want another chance. He just wants his peace and quiet, and when this whole holiday of horrors is finally over and done with, he’s going to get just that. No more intruding on a family that isn’t his. 

“Yes, they are,” Ned says quietly. “You’re just too blind to see.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to some happier memories. And the beginning of something.

When they land this time it’s in the hallway of a residential building. It smells like wet dog, and when Theon recognizes it he recoils in horror. 

“No way,” he says harshly, “I’m not going in there!”

“Yes, you are,” Ned replies calmly. “Oh and here you come.”

And really, a musical sound is coming from the staircase, getting louder and nearer until Theon sees himself coming into view, carrying two large supermarket bags and whistling merrily to himself. 

“In a good mood, were you?” Ned asks, watching the other Theon as he raps his knuckles against the door. 

Theon doesn’t answer, for now the door opens and Robb is there, smiling brilliantly when seeing the other Theon. 

“Late as usual, you bugger! Come in, we’re terribly busy!”

And like being drawn by a magnet, against his will, Theon follows Robb and his younger self into the flat. The other Theon toes off his shoes before storing the bags in a room Theon knows is the kitchen, emerging again and walking into the living room. Theon walks after him as if being pulled by a string. The room is warm due to an open fireplace, flames dancing brightly, the radio is playing quietly in the background. Robb is just lowering himself down onto a rug in front of the fireplace – beside the man already sitting there cross-legged. 

“Drowned fuck, you guys look like a gay Christmas advert,” the other Theon says as he loses his coat and drops onto a small couch. 

Theon can only agree with himself. Robb and Jon are wearing matching festive jumpers, the floor is littered with boxes and wrapping paper and glittery bows, and–

“Are those chestnuts?” the other Theon asks. “Roasting on an open fire and all that kitsch?”

“You won’t call it kitsch when you want some later,” Jon says, but then he chuckles as the radio starts to play _The Little Drummer Boy_. “Okay, I see your point,” he concedes. “But still, ew. No offense,” Jon assures Robb when he glares at him. “If you weren’t my cousin I’d totally fancy you.”

“And if I was into dicks yours’d be the first I’d fall onto,” Robb coos, fluttering his lashes at Jon who throws an especially large bow at him. 

“What, and no one’s into my dick? Not even hypothetically?” the other Theon drawls from the sofa. “I’m rather hurt, you know.”

“Oh, sorry, of course,” Robb says. “We’d be all over you in a heartbeat, probably fighting each other who gets it first. Right, Jon?”

Theon looks at Jon reluctantly. He remembers it too well, how all of a sudden his face starts to resemble a sun-ripened tomato, how he doesn’t really answer, only jerking his head vaguely. The other Theon’s eyes are on Jon too, a hint of amusement in them – and more than a hint of interest. Theon knows what his other self is thinking. Jon looks decidedly handsome, and contrary to Robb he _is_ into dicks, and Theon remembers musing on how he could find out if Jon’d be down for a nice, no-strings-attached Christmas tumble…

“Moving on,” Ned says from beside Theon and the scene fades, changing into another one. 

This time it’s only Robb and Theon, both lounging on the sofa, their feet resting on the little coffee table. With a pang of sad fondness Theon sees that Robb is wearing bright green socks with little reindeers adorning them. The telly is on, playing what looks to be _Little Lord Fauntleroy_. Theon’s gaze falls on Robb’s face, mesmerized with the film although he must’ve seen it a thousand times already. The other Theon looks rather bored, crossing and uncrossing his arms, then his feet. 

“Stop fidgeting.” Robb throws him a look of reproach. “We’re halfway in and you look like you want to bail already. There’s still three more to go.”

“I know,” the other Theon groans, taking a cushion and hugging it to his chest. “You can speak the dialogue, Stark, why do we have to watch it again and again every year?”

“Tradition,” Robb says, “and now shut up, _The Last Unicorn_ is next.”

“Fuck tradition,” the other Theon mumbles, punching his cushion. 

Theon wants to strangle him. Himself. Whatever. He wants to tell him to get himself together and fucking _enjoy_ it. They don’t have forever, and if he’d known then what he knows now he’d gladly have spent all Christmas, every Christmas, watching tacky movies with Robb. As it is he can only watch helplessly as his younger self moans and bitches, as Robb’s elbow hits him whenever he opens his mouth, as that careless brat he used to be wastes precious time. 

“It wasn’t wasted,” Ned interrupts his thoughts. “Robb loved these times with you. He was happy.”

“Could you stop reading my mind?” Theon asks, annoyed. 

“If you’d stop screaming some of your thoughts at me I wouldn’t be able to hear them,” Ned retorts. 

The scene changes again, and there are more people in the room now. It’s rather cramped, but everyone seems to be merry and boisterous, people have cups with punch and mulled wine in their hands, _Wham!_ is playing in the background and there are shouts for the host to change the playlist at once or else. Theon spies Robb hurrying in from somewhere, over to the stereo where he fumbles with various buttons while sheepishly apologizing to the crowd. Theon smiles, but his eyes are stinging. Robb loved that terrible song. 

“Not much better,” he hears his own voice exclaiming from a corner of the room as Mariah Carey starts to tell everyone what it is she wants for Christmas. Theon looks over, seeing himself leaning in the door to one of the bedrooms, and he suddenly knows with absolute certainty what’ll happen next. He doesn’t want to see it, but to his horror, his feet are moving on their own accord, getting him closer as the other Theon knocks back his cup of punch in one go. 

“Another one?” a husky voice asks and Theon watches himself grin lasciviously and take another drink from Jon, fingers grazing Jon’s as he does. 

“Thanks, Snow,” the other Theon drawls, eyes glittering with mirth when Jon’s cheeks flush hotly. “Did you search me out under the mistletoe on purpose or was it your subconscious telling you to seize your chance?”

Theon doesn’t hear Jon’s answer, a strange ringing sound in his ears as the other Theon bends and softly grazes Jon’s mouth with his own, lingering for just a moment before pulling back with a smug smile. 

“Was that how it started?” Ned asks curiously. Theon shrugs. 

“I guess. We had flirted all year long but you know him, always needed a written order to get off his arse.”

“Did the two of you just vanish in Jon’s bedroom?” Ned asks, slightly scandalized. 

Theon doesn’t answer, memories threatening to bury him under their weight. Jon under his hands, warm skin burning even through his clothes, hot mouth, eager and sweet with sugary alcohol, lust coursing through his body as he dives in and takes more, fierce, wet kisses, hands stroking and fondling, and then light suddenly flooding the room and Robb’s shocked face staring at them. 

“Guess he didn’t see it coming,” Ned comments as Robb staggers backwards, face so flabbergasted it’s almost comical. 

“He didn’t speak to us for a week,” Theon remembers, mouth twisting into a bitter frown. Another week lost, another week he could’ve had with Robb. 

“He forgave you in the end, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, even agreed to keep schtum about it when we begged him to.” Theon exhales carefully. His eyes are stinging again but he can’t lose the fight, not now. 

Another scene comes to life, the three of them sitting on the floor, a board of _Cluedo_ in their midst. The other Theon’s feet are in Jon’s lap and he’s leaning back onto his arms, looking like the cat that got the canary. 

“It was Miss Scarlett,” he says with an air of absolute certainty. “In the Dining Room, with the rope. Bet she let Black take her on the table before murdering him, the ice-cold little slut. Ouch!” he exclaims when Jon pinches his toe. “What was that for?”

“For being rude to Miss Scarlett. She’s clearly innocent!”

“Aren’t you two cute,” Robb mutters, grinning when the other Theon blows him a kiss. “Whoever it was, let’s take a break, okay? I’m starving.”

“I’ll get the menus,” Jon says, unceremoniously dumping the other Theon’s feet. But he does bend down and places a kiss on his head before vanishing from the room. 

“Good call, Stark, I could devour an ox,” the other Theon says, slumping sideways until his head is in Robb’s lap. “Can we have Thai?”

“We had Thai yesterday,” Robb replies, trying to shove Theon away. “I want pizza.”

“Ugh, bah, boring,” the Theon on the floor grumbles. 

“Just let him have his fucking pizza,” Theon whispers, and promptly his younger self graciously waves a hand and declares his agreement with Robb’s choice, as if he’s heard him.

“We have to move on,” Ned says. He’s been quiet for so long Theon had completely forgotten he was there, and now he looks at Ned pleadingly. 

“Can’t we stay for one more?” he asks. “I want – I wish I was still here. These were… these were good times.”

“I know,” Ned answers, voice warm and kind. “But there’s one more place we have to visit tonight. Don’t worry, it’s a happy place as well. For a time at least.”

“No,” Theon whispers, dread clutching at him as he understands what Ned means. “No, I don’t want to go there, you can’t, please…”

But Ned only looks at him sympathetically, his hand reaching out and grabbing Theon’s arm and the world starts spinning again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our last station of Christmas Past. Some of the most happy ones - and then it all goes down the drain.

It’s his own flat they arrive at next, the same Theon is still living in. They appear directly in the spacious living room. It’s warm and gently lit by dimmed lights, and in lieu of a real fireplace a video of one is playing on the TV. Everything is cozy, there’s even a Christmas tree, amateurishly decorated, a few presents lying under it. Theon turns slowly, taking in the table, laid for two, the cuddly blanket on the couch he’d purchased specifically for that occasion, he listens to the soft music playing in the background – carols again, of all things – and his stomach tightens anxiously, just like it did then. 

“This is a lot nicer than I expected,” Ned comments as he looks around approvingly. “I took you more for the minimalist type.”

“Well, it’s… I’m… I was…”

“FUCK!!”

The shout has both of them flinch, and moments later another Theon stomps in from the bedroom, muttering curses under his breath. His hair is slightly damp, as if he’s recently showered, and he’s followed by a cloud of cologne. Theon watches himself checking if everything’s in order, gazing at his face in every reflecting surface, smoothing down his shirt, driving a hand through his hair–

“You seem nervous,” Ned says. “Expecting company?”

As if on cue the doorbell rings, visibly startling Memory Theon. He rushes to get the door and moments later voices drift into the living room. 

“Oh, I see.” Ned smiles, face softening. “You’re nesting.” 

“It’s not – that was the first time he came over to mine after we had started – and I…” 

Theon takes a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. He remembers it so well, how inexplicably nervous he’d been, trying to make everything cozy and inviting, repeating the same mantra over and over to himself: It’s only Snow. Nothing to be nervous about, just Jon Snow, Robb’s cousin, childhood companion and occasional butt of Theon’s jokes. Only Jon, with the hair and the mouth and the perfect bum. Not that it had helped. He’d still been nervous as hell. 

“Dunno,” he says defiantly, burying his hands in his pockets. “I guess I just really wanted to get him into bed.”

Ned gives him a look that makes Theon uncomfortable, full of disappointment and sadness. Well, he can’t help him. Theon bobs from one foot to the other, tapping them, crossing his arms, uncrossing them. Did it really take that long to get Jon into the living room? Sure, the making out had started pretty quickly, but Theon distinctly remembers them eating before… well. Before. 

“Wow,” Jon says, smiling as he marches into the room, the other Theon following on his heels. “I’m flattered, I really am. Don’t tell me you actually cooked!” he adds, indicating the laid table.

“God, no,” the other Theon says with an uncharacteristic, nervous chuckle. “I ordered something. Should be here any moment, I hope.”

“So, dinner..?” Jon asks, shuffling his feet. He looks nervous too.

“I thought we could watch a movie or something?” The other Theon walks over, reaching out and placing his hands on Jon’s hips, drawing him close. 

“Or something,” Jon repeats huskily, and then they lean forward at the same time, lips meeting. They practically melt together and Theon can’t take his eyes off of himself and Jon while Ned coughs awkwardly. Hands start to get adventurous, bodies pressing together tightly – and then the doorbell rings and Memory Jon and Theon break apart, both gasping and unable to stop staring at each other until it rings again insistently. 

“Right… food,” Jon says with a hint of amusement. 

“I think we should–” Ned starts, but Theon waves him away impatiently. 

“Fuck, no,” he says, taking a seat at the table together with Jon and his other self. “I’m going to watch this.”

“Theon, we have to–”

“ _No,_ ” Theon repeats stubbornly. He’s not going to leave now. Doesn’t Ned understand? This, how he had behaved back then, with Jon, this is so highly unusual, it’s fascinating, it’s… it’s scaring him. He _has_ to watch. 

And so he does, as they eat and flirt and, perhaps not so strangely, bicker like when they were teens, only it seems more like foreplay than anything mean. Behind him Theon can hear Ned pacing the room, muttering about time running out or something of the sort, but he doesn’t listen, too fascinated by the look on Jon’s face, the one on his own. At last the forks are laid down and for a moment they don’t seem to know what to do. 

“Couch?” the other Theon asks after a long pause, grinning invitingly. Jon exhales, nods, and off they go, sitting next to each other. Theon remembers it all. The first ten minutes, both pretending to watch _Dogma_ , hands inching towards each other, one look and then… He closes his eyes, doesn’t need to look to see what is happening, he knows, can feel it as if it had happened yesterday. 

Jon’s mouth, hot on his, opening for him, Jon’s hands roaming over every inch of Theon’s skin, clothes lost somewhere in the tussle between them, warm skin under Theon’s hands and quiet gasps sounding in his ears, Jon pliant in his arms, eyes so deep and beautiful, lips parting and sighing Theon’s name, back arching as Theon takes him in hand, so responsive, so good, and Theon sinks into his tight heat, wishing he could stay there forever…

When it is over, Theon feels empty. His other self and Jon don’t speak, they just lie there, sweaty and satisfied. Theon can see his hand - the other Theon’s hand - tangled in Jon’s hair, wrapping a curl around a finger. 

“I don’t understand this,” Theon mutters to himself. His knees feel weak, his mouth dry. What was it about Jon – what had it been about him, more like, that had made Theon act like someone else? This isn’t who he is. Was. Whatever. This isn’t who he _wants_ to be. Being like this is what gets people into trouble, makes them weak and irresolute. It fucks them over. 

“Or it just makes you happy.”

Theon flinches hard when Ned appears next to him, his heart giving a painful jolt. “Where the fuck have you been?” he asks once he’s got himself together again.

“Kitchen,” Ned says, mouth pulled into a grimace. “I really didn’t need to see my nephew getting – well – with you.”

“Anyway, you’re wrong.” Theon pulls his mouth into a wide smirk. “I’m not happy, I’m fucked out of my mind. That’s what you call post-fuck high, old man. Your nephew’s a fantastic lay, I’ll give him that.”

Ned only looks at him, and the expression in his eyes makes Theon turn away, to the couch where this stupid, careless younger version of himself has closed his eyes with his head on Jon’s chest. Theon blinks, for a moment he almost thinks he can hear Jon’s heartbeat, but then the scene dissolves, reshapes into a different one, a different Christmas. The other Theon and Jon aren’t on the couch, they’re at the table, on opposite sites, apparently in the middle of an argument. 

“Why? Why can’t we stay here?” Memory Theon sounds angry, petulant, and Memory Jon sighs, annoyed. 

“You do know Robb would be devastated if we didn’t go. I don’t want to go any more than you do, believe me.”

“Then let’s stay here!” The other Theon reaches across the table, gripping Jon’s hands. “Like last year, remember? Only us, no family mumbo-jumbo, no fake smiles, just… I liked that. Didn’t you?”

“You know I did. Last year was the best Christmas I ever had. But I felt horrible ditching Robb. And Arya. I’m sorry, but I have to go. And it’d be so much better if you came, too.”

“Alright.” The other Theon sighs, seeming to debate with himself, then he nods. “We’ll go up on the twenty-fifth, presents and lunch and oh-so-funny games in the afternoon. But NO church, and you keep your mouth shut about us, got it?”

Jon doesn’t quite smile but his face softens, although it still seems sad. 

“Why?” Ned asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Why all the secret-mongering? Robb knew everything at that point anyway.”

“Robb and Arya,” Theon corrects. “Jon has never been able to keep anything from her. And I don’t know,” he adds as an answer to Ned’s question. “Maybe I wanted to avoid all their stupid questions and assumptions. Catelyn’s you’re-going-to-hell sermon. They would’ve thought we’re together or something.”

“I see.” Now Ned is looking at Theon as if seriously doubting his mental state. “Forgive me, I rather thought you looked like you were very much together.”

Theon turns back, finding the scene has changed without him noticing. They’re back on the couch, the other Theon resting against Jon’s chest, eyes heavy and mouth relaxed. Jon’s arms are wrapped around his torso, cheek nestled into the other Theon’s hair, both watching something on the telly Theon doesn’t remember ever having seen. Theon watches himself turn his head, searching Jon’s mouth and they kiss, soft and languid, and suddenly it hits him like a fist to the stomach. strikes like lightning, like a ton of bricks tumbling onto his head. 

Ned’s right. He was happy. 

The scene blurs, and for a moment Theon fears he’s lost the fight, but when he blinks his eyes are dry, and the image has changed. His younger self is sitting on the couch alone, bent forward, face buried in his hands. He doesn’t seem to hear the knock Theon can hear, doesn’t look up when Jon enters the room, Jon with his eyes reddened and his face pale and drawn, pain etched into every line. 

“That was…” Ned seems to search for the right words. “After Robb…”

“Half a year after it happened,” Theon replies blankly. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” the other Theon says tonelessly, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his at all. “I told you we were done months ago.”

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing.” Jon sits down next to the other Theon on the couch, wringing his hands in his lap. “It’s Christmas and you shouldn’t be alo–”

“ _Fuck you, Snow,_ ” the other Theon hisses menacingly. “I am fucking _sick_ of your stupid face! Do me the one favour and FUCK OFF!!” He screams the last part and Jon gets up, turning his back on him. 

“Don’t…” Theon whispers, swallowing the rest of his words before they can betray him. He swivels around angrily, looking straight at Ned. “We’re done here. I’m done. Take me back, _now._ ”

“Aye,” Ned says. “Now we’re done.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say goodbye to Ned, his time is up. He did his best, but...

They’re back at last, back at the Starks, in Rickon’s bedroom. Theon stumbles, suddenly realizing how tired he is. Barely able to keep his eyes open he crawls into bed, ready to leave the whole nightmare behind. Maybe he can get another couple hours of sleep before – Theon’s gaze falls onto the alarm clock and he stares in bewilderment. It’s not even one am. Ned had arrived, no, _Theon had fallen asleep_ at shortly past midnight, and yet it feels like the nightmare has lasted for hours and hours. 

“Listen to me, Theon,” says Ned from somewhere and Theon groans. Isn’t it over yet? “Look at me,” Ned insists. “I need you to listen!”

Unable to hide his resentment Theon turns onto his side, propping up his head and giving Ned a proper leer. 

“What is it, _Dad_? Not done with me yet?”

“Not yet,” Ned says, unmoved, but then his expression changes, becomes softer. “Please, Theon. Think of what you’ve done. Think of everything you’ve been through. I know you’re not happy, you know it, but... It doesn’t have to be like that forever. There’s still a chance, _you_ still have a chance. They are all there, just waiting for you to give them an opportunity to make you happy, if you’d just let them…” He sighs. “You’re not who you pretend to be, Theon. You’re not beyond hope. You’re not lost, not yet.”

“Yes, I am,” Theon says, and the weight of it nearly suffocates him. “It’s too late anyway. I’m too far gone to be anyone else.” He laughs, harsh and bitter. “Fuck off, Ned Stark. You could save the child from his father but you couldn’t fill the empty space, now look what came of it.”

“I am prepared to take my share of the blame, Theon,” Ned says, and now his voice is cold and stern, just like Theon remembers it from back then. “But not for everything. Not for your life, your choices.”

“My choices… then my choice is to fucking close my eyes and when I open them again you’d better–”

“Two more Ghosts, Theon. Expect the next tomorrow night.”

Theon opens his mouth, but Ned is already gone. 

He tries. He really tries, but the moment he’s alone it’s as if sleep has left along with the nightmare. Maybe he’s still sleeping, still dreaming, there hasn’t been a moment of waking up, not that Theon has noticed. And no matter what he does he can’t seem to do it. Wake up, sleep, whichever is the appropriate thing to happen. He opens his eyes after an eternity of lying as still as possible, to no effect. He’s still exhausted, and his head hurts. Theon turns his head, gaze falling on the two empty whisky bottles still on the floor. Alcohol. Maybe alcohol will help. 

The house is quiet. Everyone is probably in bed and enjoying a deep, undisturbed sleep. Theon tiptoes up on the second floor, to the door of Robb’s room, and enters for the second time during his visit. He goes directly for the cupboard, hoping with every fibre in his body that it’s still there, that Cat hasn’t thrown it out. It’s the only chance to get any alcohol in this house, except for some cooking sherry, maybe. Theon kneels, letting his hand glide under a stack of jumpers in one of the lower compartments. They’re soft, and Theon grits his teeth when his mind produces a memory of how they felt when he’d hugged his best friend. 

His fingertips graze something hard, cold, and Theon nearly faints with relief as he pulls the bottle out from under the clothes. It’s mostly full, only missing a few little sips that had been swallowed by three giggling teenage boys. They all had made faces, agreeing that it probably wasn’t worth the trouble, and Robb had hidden it in his cupboard. Now Theon’s fingers wrap around the bottle of Absinthe almost tenderly. This ought to do nicely. 

Not bothering with going back to his room Theon slumps down on Robb’s bed, putting the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a grimace. Yep, still vile. The first time comes to his mind again, when they’d tried this after Theon had nicked it from one of his uncles on a visit. Jon had refused at first, but Robb’s enthusiasm and Theon’s taunts had convinced him in the end and they’d tried it one late evening. Theon remembers their faces better than his own thoughts at the moment. Robb, disgusted and yet amused at the situation; and Jon, shocked and a little hurt, as if he couldn’t believe there was such evil in the world. 

Another time, an unbidden memory, another look of hurt on Jon’s face… no shock, though. As if Jon had known it would happen sooner or later. Theon shakes his head, takes another sip to erase that thought path. Not one he wants to visit now. But to his anger, Jon’s face surfaces again and again before his eyes, and after a long moment Theon stops fighting it. But he concentrates, trying to call up a different image of him, one of a happy Jon, a relaxed Jon. His face on the day Theon finally had the guts to ask for what he really wanted. 

***

_“Don’t look at me like that, Snow.”_

_Theon turns away from Jon, from his astonished gaze. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything._

_“Theon… just… We’ve been an item for half a year now. Why the fuck are you only mentioning this today?”_

_“Thought you like what we do.”_

_It’s half the truth. The other half… that’s a Pandora’s box better not opened. Theon waits, hoping it’s enough for Jon. And after a long pause Jon finally sighs._

_“Of course I like it. But that doesn’t mean – I want to do everything with you, Theon. Everything you want.”_

_He takes the few steps separating them and without further questions wraps his arms around Theon’s neck and draws him against his lips. He licks into Theon’s mouth insistently, dominating the kiss from the first touch and Theon lets him, melts against him, pliant for once. Jon takes control in a way that’s reassuring and gentle, walking Theon to the bed while undressing him, kissing him again, down his chin and neck, to his chest where he takes a hardening nipple into his mouth._

_Theon groans, lets himself be bedded upon the sheets. Jon’s sure hands are roaming over his skin, his warm, firm body covering Theon’s, making him feel safe and wanted. He gasps when Jon takes him into his mouth, so gentle, until Theon is hard and aching. Jon slicks his fingers, stroking up and down the crack, applying slight pressure until Theon can feel his muscles relaxing, until Jon is able to push a finger inside. He’s careful, taking it slow, opening Theon up with patience and dedication._

_Finally he stops, shuffling up until he can kiss Theon again, deep and thorough, his dick nudges against him, he pushes, an uncomfortable stinging sensation and then pleasure when Jon drives inside, the feeling of being filled taking over Theon’s whole being. He clings to Jon’s strong shoulders as he’s rocked by his thrusts, arching back into him to get more and Jon complies, holding him, kissing him, whispering his name. The look on his face is one Theon will never forget, full of wonder and affection._

_“I love you,” Jon whispers, and Theon’s orgasm crashes over him like a wave._

_***_

Theon swallows mouthful after mouthful of Absinthe, relishing the burn on his tongue and down his throat as memories wash over him. Him and Jon in bed, him and Jon shopping or watching TV or bickering… The images get fuzzier the more he drinks and soon they blend together. Jon, Jon, Jon… Theon laughs, drinks, he sobs dryly, cursing himself for this stupid breakdown. Other memories come and go, of him and Jon and Robb together, of the day Robb hadn’t been there anymore all of a sudden, and the longing gets too much, too much for Theon to hold alone. 

***

_“It was an accident. Some guy lost control over his car. Robb...he was immediately…”_

_Jon breaks off, shaking so hard Theon means to hear his bones rattling. He can’t catch a clear thought, only hearing it over and over again: Robb is gone._

_“Theon.” Jon is crying, reaching for him, and suddenly something snaps and Theon pushes him away._

_“I need you, Theon, we need each other now…” Jon sobs, coming closer again and Theon turns and runs away. He doesn’t want to be needed, not now, not by Jon. Not by anyone._ He _doesn’t need anyone. Anyone but his best friend._

***

He fumbles for his phone, falling off Robb’s bed as he tries to pry it out of his back pocket. The text on the display swims before his eyes but finally he manages to find the number in his address book. Theon tries to focus, hesitates, and presses the button. He hangs up again immediately, rolling onto his back on the floor, tears trickling into his hair. He’s feeling sick, stomach churning, his mouth tastes of anise and fear, a revolting combination. 

He tries again, presses the Call button, and this time he makes it to the second dial tone before he slams the red icon, throwing his phone across the room. A moment later he gets to his hands and knees, crawling over the undulating floor until he’s reached it and, blinded by tears, nearly choking on them, he tries once more, letting it ring, yearning to hear Jon’s voice just for one moment. 

“Hello?”

Theon presses a hand to his mouth to prevent the words from escaping. _I miss you. I need you. I’m so sorry._

“Theon… is that you?”

A wave of nausea hits and he hangs up, bending forward, holding his stomach, and then the world spins, collapses, and he sinks into darkness with a relieved sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different: are any of you Brienne/Jaime shippers by any chance? I have a query I need to address and since I only casually ship them but have never read any fics... If you are, please tell me here or message me on tumblr (owlsinathens)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning!
> 
> This chapter contains Theon/OFC - if that's not your thing skip to the last few paragraphs. Also, sorry it's so awkward, I never seem to write het stuff and curiously it's the one I can't do at all, so it's probably really weird.

She’s pretty, in a way. Her cheeks dimple when she smiles, and although her teeth are slightly crooked it doesn’t make her ugly. All in all it could be worse, and she does have that one unique selling proposition: she doesn’t know him. Theon smiles as she talks on and on, barely listening. He’s had a hard time singling out a girl who doesn’t remember him from back when he still lived here. In other words, someone he hasn’t already slept with. Not that some of them don’t seem keen on repeating the experience – except for Kyra, maybe, who’s here too, sitting at the bar and throwing him ugly looks. 

The girl Theon has decided on – Maria or Mary or something of the like – only moved to Winterfell three years ago and apparently hasn’t heard any trashy stories about him. It had almost been too easy, sidling up to her when she’d been sitting on a bar stool, waiting for a friend who stood her up. Why is a pretty woman like you sitting all alone, blablablah, that kind of bullshit. Now, twenty minutes later, she’s sipping the brightly coloured cocktail Theon has ordered for her, telling him half her life story. 

Theon smiles, nods, makes sympathetic noises in the right places and generally presents himself like the girl’s dream come true: handsome, a good listener and paying for the drinks. When the right moment has come he slides his hand across the table he bagged for them, grazing the back of her hand with his fingers. She giggles, an annoying sound, but there are those dimples again and Theon focuses on them, on her full rosebud mouth and her ample bosom nearly busting her top. 

She’s a little on the heavy side, soft and with lavish curves, as far from flat, hard muscles as possible. After last night’s nightmares and memories and the consequent drunken breakdown, Theon needs a distraction. Someone who doesn’t remind him of things past, things he doesn’t have anymore and won’t have again. Sure, he could’ve picked up a guy, but after a horribly embarrassing incident a few months ago where he’d drunkenly called some poor, unassuming guy the wrong name… better be on the safe side. 

He hasn’t seen any of the Starks all day, had waited for them to leave the house to take a shower and get himself some leftovers from the fridge. Thus fortified he’d gone for a long walk, ending up in a bar he’s sure had been a humble pub when he’d still been living here. He sneaks a glance at his watch. Almost ten pm, time to get a move on with Mary. When she leans forward, gesticulating while recounting some funny story about her old family dog, Theon catches a long strand of strawberry blonde hair, tucking it behind Mary’s ear. 

Her smile turns a little shy, but when Theon bends towards her her eyes flutter shut and she tilts her head to meet his lips. She’s sweet, not overdoing it, letting Theon take the lead in this first kiss. He opens his mouth just a little, and with a sigh, she follows and the kiss deepens ever so slightly. He strokes her cheek, just once before pulling back, giving her his most charming smile. 

“I think we should go somewhere else, don’t you?”

She smiles, eyes slightly dazed. “My place isn’t far from here, if you like..? I could show you my… my…”

“Stamp collection?” Theon suggests and she giggles again. 

“Something like that, yeah. Only…” She hesitates, biting her lip in a way that reminds him a little too much of someone else who likes to do that. “I’m getting up pretty early tomorrow, family coming, lots to do, you know…” She trails off, giving him a nervous glance. 

For a moment Theon doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s like she’s stolen his lines. Shouldn’t he say something of the kind to indicate that this isn’t the start of a wonderful romance? Well, seems like they’re on the same page already, and his smile broadens. 

“I totally understand. I couldn’t stay the night anyway, my hosts…”

They leave the bar together. It’s only a short walk to her flat and by the time they’re there Theon has successfully talked his dick into half-hardness. He kisses her in her hallway, and this time there’s no shyness about her response. In minutes they have lost their coats and jumpers, his flies are open and her hand is inside, massaging his dick through his pants. Theon bites her neck gently, careful not to make a mark, not wanting to leave any trace of his being here. 

She moans, voice low, tugging him along into a small room. It seems to double as living room and bedroom both, there’s a sofa-sleeper with a heap of blankets and pillows, and she takes a step back from him, tugging down the straps of her top. Her heavy breasts, unheld by anything now, look like creamy globes, nipples large and stiff, and for just a second Theon doesn’t know what to do. It’s been over two years since he’d last been with a girl. Then muscle memory kicks in and he reaches out, cupping them, stroking his thumbs over the soft skin. 

Her eyes are closed and Theon kisses her again before he shucks his shirt and jeans, dropping onto his knees to free her of hers. She sits on the bed and he tugs them down together with her pants, burying his face in her lap, for a moment thrown by the lack of hair and – well. Apparently it’s like riding a bicycle, he remembers what to do and goes to work. He still likes it, the taste, the way she responds... Soon she’s trembling, gasping, emitting little moans and noises of arousal, and when she lies down she’s thoroughly wet and ready. 

He crawls onto the bed, lingers to kiss her once more while he puts on a condom, moving down to suck a hard nipple in his mouth, gentler than he’d do with – Theon squeezes his eyes shut, fumbling for his dick and guiding it into her warmth. He shivers, eyes flying open in surprise. _It’s so easy._ He’s completely forgotten. The movement is slick, smooth, even with the condom, taking him in with ease, no muscles squeezing him tightly, fighting against his entering, just this simple, comfortable glide. It feels really good. 

Her hands flutter over his back, she’s whispering encouragements and Theon starts to fuck her, marvelling at the way her breasts heave with every thrust, the way her soft body moves under him. There’s another difference, he can’t go as deep as with – there’s a barrier and he doesn’t want to hurt her, carefully measuring his thrusts. He goes a little faster, taking hold of her legs and laying them on his shoulders and her moans change, become louder and more guttural and then she starts touching herself, rubbing herself in time with Theon’s movements. 

He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and then she screams, a new wave of wetness turning everything even slippier, and the image comes unbidden, of Jon coming with Theon’s cock deep inside him and Theon tenses, spills into the condom, finally collapsing over her. For a moment neither of them moves, but then she nudges Theon’s back and he crawls away, pinching the base of the condom as he goes. 

“Bathroom’s that way,” she says with a lazy smile, indicating the general direction of the hallway. When Theon comes back she’s still naked, relaxing back into her pillows. “That was really good,” she says. “Thank you. Just…”

Here it comes, Theon thinks as he starts to dress, his heart sinking. Now she’ll ask when they will see each other again and he’ll have to lie through his teeth and–

“Who is she? The girl you’re trying to get over? Or back at.” 

She winks so guilelessly that suddenly Theon feels ashamed, and exhausted. “He,” he confesses, sinking down onto the bed. “Was it that obvious?”

“I’m kind of in the same boat,” she says with a shrug. Her shoulders are dusted with freckles, Theon notices. “Ex-fiancé,” she continues. “Fucked off a few weeks before the wedding with my maid of honour. Wanker,” she concludes almost cheerily. “You look a lot like him.”

“You look nothing like him,” Theon blurts out, surprised when she laughs at that. 

“I take that as a compliment.” Her smile fades, she looks curious. “Did it work? Did you forget about him?”

“Well… no offense, but… no.”

“Same.” She wrinkles her nose, looking really cute and for just a short moment Theon regrets that this is a one-time deal. “So, what’s your story? I can’t believe a good-looking guy like you who’s this skilled in bed got dumped.”

“I’m an asshole,” Theon hears himself say, to his utter surprise. “I treated him appallingly and he deserves better – not that it was anything meaningful, mind. Just incredible sex and a shared history. Easy to get things confused, imagine feeling where there are none.”

“I see.” Mary nods wisely, eyes sparkling. “And, not that I’m saying you’d want that, but… there isn’t any chance to set things right again? At all?”

“No,” Theon answers, “none at all. You’re right by the way, I wouldn’t want it anyway.” 

“Wouldn’t you,” she says dryly. Theon huffs, half a laugh, half a bitten-off groan. 

And before he knows it he’s telling her everything. About Jon and Robb, how he lost his best friend, how he behaved afterwards. Mary doesn’t say much, but she’s listening in a way that feels strangely comforting. Theon catches himself wishing they could be friends. Finally Mary starts yawning, and Theon takes it as his cue to leave. She accompanies him to the door. 

“That really was a lovely evening,” Theon says, and to his surprise it’s true. “You sure you won’t tell me your ex’ address? I could pay him a visit with a crowbar…”

“Stop tempting me,” Mary says, swatting Theon’s arm. “Hey, if you’re ever in the mood to forget your guy again…” She winks, and Theon bends forward to kiss her soft cheek. 

“Yours will be the first door I knock on,” he promises. 

And then he’s out, back on the quiet streets, slowly making his way to the Starks. It’s past eleven when he passes the cafe and Theon’s stops, looking up at the windows on the first floor. Jon said he’s renting a flat there. Is one of the windows his? For an absurd moment Theon wants to take a handful of pebbles to throw them at the windows until Jon looks out. But then what? Tell him he just fucked a nice girl? Theon can almost imagine the look of bewilderment on Jon’s face, followed by hurt, by contempt… no, not the last. Not Jon’s style. 

Instead of following his childish impulse, Theon walks on, again wishing he’d have thought to take a proper scarf. The cheap one he’s bought here isn’t cutting it at all, too thin and scratchy. He thinks longingly of Sansa’s huge, wooly shawl thing, the comfortable, familiar smell of it, its softness, its warmth… Maybe he can borrow it for his next outing. Sansa doesn’t seem to go out in the evenings anyway. 

After a long, cold walk he’s finally there – only to curse when he realizes it’s five minutes to midnight, all the windows are dark, and he doesn’t have a key. Cursing himself Theon trudges up the path, already resigned to ringing them all out of bed and the shitstorm he’ll get upon that. He tries the handle without much hope – and staggers in surprise when the door swings inwards immediately. What the… The kitchen is warm, the light sensor going on as soon as Theon walks in, and there’s a sheet of paper waiting for him on the counter. 

_Lock the door and don’t make any noise!_

This is… unexpectedly nice, and Theon does as the paper tells him to do, tiptoeing through the dark living room and up the stairs. The door to Rickon’s room isn’t fully closed and Theon pushes it open, longing for bed already – only to find it already occupied. 

“Boo,” Robb says, and Theon screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise :D   
> Well, at least Theon's surprised lol


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Robb. I love Robb.

It’s as if he’s never been away, as if the pain had never existed, and for just a moment Theon feels whole again, breathing freely, a smile starting to form on his lips. It’s gone as quickly as it came when reality hits, when he realizes it’s just another one of those dreams driving him mad. Robb can’t be there, sitting on his bed, just like he remembers him. Robb died six years ago. Robb left. _Robb left_. The cloying sadness turns to anger in a heartbeat.

“Aren’t you going to at least say hello?” The dream frowns, pushing an auburn curl from his forehead. “Here I am, your personal Ghost of Christmas Present, and all you do is scream like a girl and glower at me?”

Theon can’t answer, the words he wants to stay stuck in his throat. Instead he lunges, swings his fist, watching in horror as it goes right through Robb’s head. 

“What the fuck, Stark,” he yells, tongue finally unlocked. “At least have the decency to stay solid when I want to punch your fucking face!”

“Would it make you feel better?” Robb asks, ducking - for the lack of a better word - two more blows. 

“Yes, it fucking _would!_ ” 

Theon pants, feeling hot and frazzled, but then Robb gets up from the bed, looming over him, and now it’s Theon who takes a step back, out of hitting range. 

“I missed you, you bloody moron,” Robb says, and then his arms close around Theon in a tight embrace. 

All anger evaporates as he feels what he thought he’d never feel again. That had always been one of the best things about Robb, his hugs. They always felt real. As if he genuinely enjoyed it, holding someone else close. He always did it with his whole body, arms secure and tight, cheek pressed against whomever he was hugging. And then he did that little thing where he squeezed, making a tiny rocking motion before pulling back, his arms lingering on shoulders or hips. 

Theon melts into the embrace, eyes stinging as he waits for it, the little rocking motion, and when it comes he buries his head on Robb’s shoulder, holding onto him like a lifeline. How can this be a dream when it feels so fucking real? If it is… he doesn’t want to wake up ever again. 

“Don’t think such things,” Robb murmurs as he starts to pull back, hands lingering on Theon’s arms, rubbing them as if to warm him. “Be glad you’re alive. I’d give anything to be alive.” His bright blue eyes are sad. 

“It’s not as if I’d leave anything valuable behind,” Theon mutters, and then he cries out in surprise when Robb whacks him over the head. 

“Nothing valuable? Like family? Or friendship? Or love?” Robb shakes his head, stepping away. “We better start right now so you see what it is you’re willing to throw away so easily.”

“I don’t want to,” Theon says, exhaustion taking over again. “I can’t stand another night like the last, okay? I’m fucking knackered.”

“Dad give you a rough time?” Robb grins briefly before becoming serious again. “But that was just a bunch of memories. Tonight I’ll give you the real tour. Christmas Present, you know.”

“Some of those memories involved my best friend who thought he had to fucking _die_.” The anger starts to return and Theon crosses his arms. “So, yeah, it actually _was_ a little rough!”

“Could you please stop acting like I did it on purpose?” Robb is getting angry too, mirroring Theon’s pose. “Like you’re the only one who was hurt? You ungrateful bastard. Flouncing around, being awful to everyone I love and everyone who loves you, just because I’m not here anymore. Fuck, Theon! The way you treat them, the way you treated everyone right after my death – if you weren’t my best friend, I’d fucking strangle you!”

They glare at each other across the room until Robb sighs, tense body relaxing. “There’s no use talking to you, you’re as stubborn as a mule. Better get on with it so you can see with your own eyes what you deny so vehemently.”

“I don’t–” Theon starts, but Robb has already grabbed his arm and off they are. It’s just the same as the last nightmare, the breathtaking spinning, the lights speeding past and finally the hard landing. 

“Care to tell me where the hell we are?” Theon asks grumpily as he scrambles back to his feet. 

“Wow, you’re even more ignorant than I thought.” Robb rolls his eyes, turning around himself, indicating the room. “Nothing here looking familiar?”

Well, not really. They’re in some sort of living room-slash-kitchen, but it doesn’t look familiar at all. There are no pictures indicating the resident, only a kettle on the stovetop and two used mugs sitting in the sink. A cheap plastic Christmas tree, one of those that already come decorated, is standing in a corner. The couch and coffee table are stylish and minimalistic and there’s absolutely no clue as to where they are. Until Theon hears something sounding like a low, guttural moan coming from a door he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Oh dear god,” Theon says. 

“Ooooh yes,” the bodiless voice seems to agree, becoming more high-pitched, and unmistakably female. “Ash… oh _gods!!!_ ”

“Yeah, I’m outta here,” Theon states, absolutely horrified. “If you think I’m standing here listening to my sister fucking her conquest of the day–”

“Oh, stop playing the prude. You and Jon weren’t exactly quiet, you know.” Robb grins, cocking his head when a second voice joins the first one, darker and more forceful. “Wow, your sister must be a firecracker! I almost regret not going for her myself while I still had the chance.”

“Would you _stop?”_ Theon covers his ears as the duet in what must be the bedroom rises, louder and louder until… “Please tell me they’re done,” he grits through his teeth.

“Well, I am,” Robb says cheerily, “or I would be if I still had those kinds of notions.”

“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” Theon lets his arms sink, jumping when the door flies open and reveals his bloody sister, hair dishevelled, thankfully wrapped in a morning robe. She walks over to the kitchenette, filling the kettle with water and turning on the stove. “Honey?” she calls over her shoulder and for a moment Theon freezes in indignation – pet names, really? Coming from _Asha?_ – before he realizes she means the actual sweet stuff people put in their tea. Which is what she’s making. For two. 

That isn’t Ash’s usual modus operandi, Theon thinks, indignation returning as he watches his sister washing the mugs while humming to herself. When the water boils, she pours it into the mugs, dipping tea bags into them. Finally she retrieves a small bottle of honey from a cupboard, carrying everything to the coffee table. Theon blinks. It seems disturbingly domestic, Ash making post-sex tea for someone instead of showing them the door. Like he used to do... before Jon. And then again post Jon. 

“You’re the best, thank you,” a gentle voice says from the door. Theon turns just in time to see a woman walking out, wrapped in a satin bedsheet. She looks like a tiny greek goddess, her blonde, almost white hair escaping an intricate braid. She has pretty, delicate features and huge eyes that are a very peculiar shade of blue, almost violet. 

“Woah,” Robb says and whistles through his teeth. “How the fuck do you Greyjoys do this, always bagging the hottest person available?”

“Shut up,” Theon says, too busy staring to really listen as he watches the proceedings on the couch. The small woman accepts a cup from Ash, smiling, nose wrinkling in a very cute way. And Asha _smiles back_ , bending forward to kiss her, and this definitely doesn’t look like how one would kiss a fling, rather more… intimate. “My sister has a girlfriend,” Theon says, flabbergasted.

“Looks like it.” Robb frowns. “What, you didn’t _know_? Sorry, mate, but that’s the height of ignorance.”

Silently, Theon has to agree with that. How could he have missed his sister’s whole relationship? “Maybe it’s new,” he mumbles to himself. “Can’t be longer than a few months. Ash would’ve mentioned–”

“Sure, right between your rants and the insults,” Robb says disapprovingly. “Have you ever even asked her if there’s something going on in her life?”

Again, too true to argue with, and Theon turns away to hide the guilt rising up in his chest. Meanwhile the snogging on the couch has stopped and Asha is bent over, scribbling something on a large, padded envelope. 

“You know you don’t have to go to all that trouble,” the blonde woman says gently. “I don’t even know your brother – and we’ve been dating for nearly a year – but I can tell you he won’t appreciate it.”

Theon bristles angrily. Who the fuck does this bird think she is, judging him without knowing him at all–

“You’re right,” Ash replies with a sigh, effectively stopping Theon’s internal rant. “But he’s my little brother. It’d feel wrong not to at least give him a present. I always did that, even after Mum had died.” She smiles tightly. “The Christmas right after we had absolutely nothing. I had no money, Dad was drunk out of his mind… In the end I wrapped everything from his room in newspaper. I’m sure he thought I was shitting him.”

“I remember that,” Theon says, throat tight. “The unpacking orgy was so much fun and there was so much… I felt really rich, owning so much stuff.” He shakes his head, huffs. “She’d even drawn a tree on her bedroom wall. We didn’t have a real one. It was really cool.”

“Did you ever tell her? That you liked it? Did you ever thank her?” Robb’s look is stern, but not unkind. 

He hasn’t. Not once, not a single time has he thanked her for everything she had done for him before Ned had whisked him away. And after that it had been Ash who’d kept contact, calling and visiting. Not that Theon had appreciated it back then, having his big sister butting in in his life. He still doesn’t, but maybe he can finally believe that it’s done out of care, not just to annoy him. Maybe Asha really cares for him. 

“It’s a lovely photo,” the blonde woman says, pulling something out of the yet unsealed envelope. “He doesn’t look like the dick he must be.”

“That was a great day,” Asha says, taking the picture in hand. “Never seen him so relaxed and happy, we had so much fun.”

Theon can’t quite make out what the picture shows, so he starts to walk towards the couch, intending to look over their shoulders. 

“Who’s that guy? He’s got lovely eyes, so dark and smouldering.” Blondie points on something – someone – in the photo and Theon stops in his tracks. 

“That’s the poor sod who thought it’s a good idea to attach his soft little heart to my idiot brother,” Ash explains with a shrug. “We went to the amusement park together, Theon and him and that Stark boy with the cute smile. Can’t show you, he’s the one who took the photo.”

The stinging has returned to Theon’s eyes and he takes the final steps, swallowing hard when he looks at the photo. It shows the three of them, Ash and him and Jon in the middle. Theon laugh-snorts when he takes in Jon’s look. Smouldering his arse, they’d just come out of a haunted house and Jon had been freaked out of his mind. The memory comes unprompted, how tightly Jon had clutched his hand, screaming bloody murder when an ice zombie had pretended to attack them, Ash and Robb pissing themselves with laughter, his own reaction. 

_Don’t worry, my lady, I’ll protect you. Shall I sweep you into my arms and carry you to safety?_

The photo starts to swim before his eyes, and to his utter horror Theon realizes what’ll happen if he doesn’t put a stop to it right now. He straightens, putting on his best derisive sneer. 

“What the fuck,” he says out loud, glancing at Robb to make sure he’s listening. “Another piece for the bulk-waste pickup, I guess.” And with that he scoffs, marching over to where Robb stands and offering his arm. “Come on, off to the next waste of time.”

Robb doesn’t even look at him as he touches his arm.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning. *yawn* I caught a cold AGAIN. That's the fourth one in the last few months. -.-
> 
> A lovely anon on tumblr asked for a fluffy story where Jon's afraid of spiders – it fits perfectly in this chapter, but I will do a separate one too.

“I thought we had more to do?” Theon asks with a slight sense of deja-vú when they arrive back at the Starks. When Robb doesn’t respond, Theon rolls his eyes. “Stop sulking, Stark. Did you really think I’d go boohoo at seeing Ash’s stupid gift? Go and buy the largest turkey for the family? I thought you know me.”

“The Theon I knew was a jerk,” Robb answers quietly. “Not a cruel asshole.”

He’s been called an asshole so often, by so many people… Sometimes he laughs about it, other times he welcomes it, provokes it even. But hearing it from Robb… it stings. 

“And now you give up on me? Just like that?” Theon says it lightly, as if he isn’t bothered either way. 

“Not yet,” Robb says without the hint of a smile. “The next things I want to show you just happen to be here.”

“Judging from my escapades with your old man last night it’s around midnight. This is the Stark house, right?” Theon scoffs. “Everyone is long asleep.”

“You think so?” 

And with that Robb walks away, into the living room and up the stairs, not waiting if Theon is following. After a moment Theon hurries after him, catching Robb on the first landing, but to his surprise they continue to the second floor. And really, there’s light shining out from below the door to what used to be Jon’s room. Robb gives Theon a long look before gliding straight through the door, and this time Theon remembers to open it. 

Light floods the hallway and Theon blinks, slowly becoming aware of soft music and a rhythmic rat-a-tat that turns out to come from a sewing machine. Cat is sitting behind it, her face pulled into a concentrated frown, mouth full of needles as she works away on something looking a lot like… 

“My old coat!” Theon exclaims, astonished as he recognizes it. “I thought that one was gone forever. Thrown out long ago, I was sure.”

“As if.” Robb snorts, finally smiling again. “Mum’s a bit of a hoarder, really. Nothing ever gets thrown out. I think she’s putting new lining into it.”

Robb’s right, that is what she’s doing, and for a moment Theon is speechless. He loved that coat, vintage, found in a thrift store in the capital. He’d forgotten it at the Starks one winter and when he’d returned the next time it had been warm outside and the coat had been gone from the rack. Theon had immediately accused Cat of throwing it out, or giving it to some old clothes collection. Not that he ever said it to her face, of course. Instead he'd brooded over the loss in silence, feeling very resentful and mistreated. 

Now he feels guilty. He never gave Catelyn the chance to set things right. Maybe she’d thought Theon had forgotten all about it and had squirreled it away to some storage closet… until now. 

“Maybe she’s doing it up for Rickon,” Theon muses, shrugging when Robb gives him a funny look. “What? He must be about my build these days, I’m sure it’d fit him like a glove.”

“Or maybe, you ignorant twat, she’s doing it for _you_ ,” Robb retorts. “Is it really so hard to believe that people might want to do something nice for you?”

“Not without a reason.” Theon tries to come up with one. “Maybe she wants the path cleared, now that I have effectively cleared at least the _house_ of Snow. Or she needs something else.”

“So, whenever someone’s nice to you they must have some ulterior motives? You really think that? What’s Sansa’s motive for inviting you? What’s Bran’s for playing cyvasse with you? What’s Jon’s reason for lo–”

“Helper syndrome,” Theon interjects quickly. “That’s why Sansa invited me. Well, that and the fact that she loves meddling. As for Bran, he loves winning, but not to a complete loser, and I present enough of a challenge to not make it boring.”

“And Jon?” Robb asks belligerently, glaring daggers at Theon. “What’s his hidden agenda?”

Yes, what about Jon? Why the fuck has he been so dead set on Theon? He’s pretty, he’s nice, he’s not unintelligent… why Theon? Why choose someone who rejected Jon when he needed him the most? Why cling to something that had been a casual thing at the most? _Casual._ Theon repeats the word in his head until it almost sounds like the truth. _Casual, casual, casual._ Robb is still looking at him, waiting for an answer, but then a soft knock on the door saves his arse and a moment later Sansa comes in, wearing silky pyjamas, her hair in a braid. 

She looks like a little girl and for a second Theon smiles, remembering her coming into Robb’s room where they were gathered, demanding they should tone it down or else. As a teen she’d visited Theon alone sometimes, pouring her heart out to him, asking for advice about boys. It had always been the same: boys don’t exist until you’re thirty-one. Or, at least that was the official position, if Robb should have asked. It had been Theon consoling her when her first crush turned out to be playing for the other team, or when that Baratheon boy had been nasty again. 

“Hey, mum,” Sansa says, sitting down on a huge stack of what looks to be worn, old tablecloths. “Still at work?”

“Fowwy,” Cat mumbles, taking the needles out of her mouth. “Sorry, I mean. Did the machine wake you?”

“Not at all, I can’t sleep anyway.” Sansa shrugs. “Everyone else in bed?”

“Arya’s still out. She said she’ll be back tomorrow, probably staying at that boy’s place. Bran should be, and I guess Theon is too. At least I haven’t heard anything since he came home and shrieked like a banshee.” Cat shakes her head. “And I told him to be quiet in my note.”

Sansa laughs. “He probably saw a spider,” she says cheekily. 

“A spider?!” Theon shouts, outraged. “When have I ever been afraid of spiders? That wasn’t me, that’s–”

“That’s Jon,” Cat finishes his sentence. “Theon’s afraid of heights.” Theon stares at her, surprised that she remembers that about him – that she even knew in the first place – but it doesn’t last long, as Catelyn continues. “Heights and commitment, and be it to a brand of cereal.”

“Yeah,” Sansa agrees to Theon’s indignation, but at least she doesn’t comment on the latter, instead smiling reminiscently. “God, Jon was such a baby about spiders. I remember hearing him screaming his head off once and when I went to see what was wrong, thinking he was at least getting murdered, Arya came from his room with a crumpled tissue in her hand, rolling her eyes. She was, what, probably five then?”

“She was always the first to come to Jon’s rescue, wasn’t she?” Cat smiles too, turning the coat on the machine and continuing her work. “She went dotty on him the second he showed up.”

Theon doesn’t listen to Sansa’s reply. Catelyn’s wrong. It had not always been Arya coming to Jon’s rescue. He remembers one or two times when he’d grudgingly gotten to his feet to remove a tiny spider or even a simple harvestman from Jon’s room, of course teasing him mercilessly while doing it. And there had been that one notable time when they had already started their thing… _There_ , _princess,_ Theon had said after removing an offending eight-legged creature, _I’ve slain the vicious beast. What kind of reward can I expect from you?_ Jon had snorted. _My eternal gratitude?_ Theon had shaken his head. _You can do better than that, surely._ And Jon had laughed, and gone down on his knees...

“What are you working on?” Sansa asks, startling him.

“Have you seen what that stupid boy is wearing?” Cat fumbles another thread into the needle. “No gloves and that flimsy mass-produced scarf, and his coat is too thin to be worn in this weather. We’ve been promised even more snow over the next few days. I don’t want him to get hypothermia.”

Theon swallows against a sudden lump in his throat, purposely not looking at Robb. This is… 

“I thought you already had a present for Theon,” Sansa wonders. “Didn’t you say something about a hamper?”

“I’ll just give it to him when he leaves. Or rather, sneak it in his car when he’s not looking so he can’t _accidentally_ forget it.” Cat looks up. “I hope I get everything done until tomorrow night. His old fingerless gloves are coming undone at the seams and I think moths have come into the scarf, I will have to darn the holes.”

The lump in Theon’s throat thickens considerably. It’s so thoughtful. So completely unexpected. So hard to believe. 

“A lot of work for someone she allegedly dislikes, don’t you think?” Robb interrupts Theon’s thoughts. “But she probably only wants a kidney or something in return.”

“Shut up,” Theon snaps, turning his face to the side, away from Robb. “So what, she’s mending some old stuff. Hardly going to make up for years of cold shoulders and distrust, though.”

“Of course she distrusted you!” Robb raises his voice. “You snuck alcohol in here the moment you were old enough to nick it from your uncles, the endless parade of girls started when you were about fifteen and you had your driving license for barely a month before you got two speeding tickets. You were a horrible teen to be responsible for!”

“Jon didn’t do any of these things, and she didn’t treat him any better.” Theon frowns, scolding himself for being the one to mention Jon again. “What explanation do you have for that?”

“The same Jon gave you. She loved us, her children, so much, it took all her energy.” Robb sighs. “She’s human. She made mistakes, she knows she did. But she can’t change the past, or the way she is. Jon has forgiven her. Why the hell can’t you?”

“One moment,” Theon says, ignoring the last question as he suddenly realizes what exactly Robb has said. “How do you know what Jon said to me? That was when we were in your room…”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Theon turns at the sadness in Robb’s voice. “It happens sometimes, that one of you calls me with your thoughts. I wish I could’ve talked to both of you that night. I wish I could’ve slammed my fist into your stupid mouth.”

“Yes, yes, I was an asshole. It was necessary, okay?” It’s impossible to keep the desperation out of his voice. “He wouldn’t have stopped, Robb. He would’ve tried again and again to talk to me, he would’ve been _there_ the whole time and I just…” Theon takes a deep breath. “I just can’t bear to be around him.”

“Too bad,” Robb says curtly. “Because you’ll be around him in approximately half a second.”

And with that he grips Theon’s arm and the room with Catelyn and Sansa spins out of sight.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, off to Jon's...

Theon keeps his eyes squeezed shut once they’ve arrived, stupidly refusing to look at Jon’s place. Robb can bring him here, but he can’t force him to look. Can he? Nothing at all happens, it’s very silent apart from a ticking clock and a weird, sniffling noise, like someone trying to breathe through a stuffy nose. Does Jon own a pug? Whatever it is, Jon’s probably asleep, and it starts to get boring standing in an unknown space with his eyes closed. So Theon opens them – and immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

Jon isn’t asleep, of course he isn’t. He’s half sitting, half lying on a very shabby couch, head buried on Arya’s shoulder. She has an arm wrapped around him, stroking his back with her hand. The sound he’s been hearing is coming from Jon, and Theon recoils in horror when he realizes what it is. His gaze searches Robb, they have to get out of here _this very fucking moment_ – Robb isn’t there. Theon swivels around, frantically looking for him – he isn’t there. He’s left Theon alone, here of all places. 

“Gods,” Jon’s voice comes from behind Theon and he looks over his shoulder. Jon is sitting up, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes. “I feel like the biggest crybaby on earth. Thanks for coming over. Tell Gendry I’m sorry for thwarting your tête-à-tête. He’ll be very grumpy with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arya snorts. “You know, I like that boy very much, but his declarations of undying love do get tiring after some time. That, and he needs to work on his stamina. Bam, seconds after we’re done, snoring like a rhino.”

“You’re mean.” Jon smiles, a little watery. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair is a mess of tangled curls. “When will you finally confess your undying love?”

“I’m not ready to be tied down.” Arya smiles confidently. “If he’s the right man for me, he’ll give me the time I need.”

“Do you think you’ll get there? Eventually?” 

“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s as bad as you are, really.” Arya reaches out, stroking Jon’s shoulder. “Idiots, the both of you, clinging to people who make you unhappy.”

Theon listens to their conversation with mixed feelings. Arya sounds a little cold, the way she’s talking about whoever that poor Gendry person is. He wonders if he sounded like that when he talked to people about Jon, when they were still a thing. 

“Not at all,” Robb says in his ear, nearly giving Theon a heart attack. “I know you won’t like to hear it, but the way you talked about Jon was very different from that.”

Was it? Theon can’t remember talking about Jon to anyone. Maybe Robb, on occasion. Ash. “What did I say?” he asks. Robb is right, he doesn’t want to hear it. But he has to. 

“Nothing specific,” Robb answers. “But your voice was always warm when you went, Jon said this, or, Jon did that… I always had the feeling you were, I don’t know, proud of him? You definitely liked showing him off.”

That’s probably true. Jon is a pretty boy, anyone would like to show off such eye-candy. There had been times Theon had thought about printing it on a tee, _yes I’m dicking THAT_ , or something of the sort. But then, that hadn’t exactly been true most of the time. Not that Theon would ever have wanted to print _that_ on a tee. 

“Anyway,” Jon says now, “sorry for being such a wuss. It’s just – he called me last night only to hang up again and I couldn’t help but think–”

“That he had a great, christmassy epiphany and suddenly grew a heart?” Arya finishes dryly. “Wake up, Jon. I love you very much, but you are the stupidest person I know. He won’t come around. He won’t ever get over his own cowardice and concede that you’ve been the best fucking thing in his miserable life.”

“She’s wrong,” Theon says, trying his hardest to sound contemptuous. “The best fucking thing in my miserable life had been my best friend, not some guy I fucked for a time.”

“Flattering,” Robb says with a strange undertone. “I totally forgot what a liar you are. Tell me one thing, Theon, and _tell the truth_. If you could change our places, Jon dead and me still here… would you?”

Of course, in a fucking heartbeat! Theon means to say it out loud but the words won’t come over his lips no matter how hard he tries. 

“I told you to tell the truth,” Robb says coldly. 

Theon fights it, but after a few minutes of struggling against it he has to give in. “ _No,_ okay?” he grits through his teeth, and to his utter shock it doesn’t stop there. “I survived without you. A world without Jon in it would be unbearable.” Theon coughs, gripping his throat. Robb looks at him smugly and Theon has to fight the urge to smack him again. “Is that some fucked-up, ghostly Jedi trick?!”

“You’re right,” Jon says behind them, and Theon turns to stare at him. _What??_ “I know it’s foolish,” Jon continues, getting to his feet. “He made himself very clear the last time we talked. He said the most horrible things just to get rid of me, wanted me gone so desperately…”

“I want to kill him for saying those things to you,” Arya growls. She’s getting up too, punching her fist into her palm. “As if anyone who ever saw you two together would believe a word of it. Only your cock, yeah? Sure, he was with someone for over two years just for _cock.”_ She shakes her head. “He’s not good enough for you, Jon,” she says and for the first time Theon finds himself agreeing with her. 

Jon only smiles sadly. “It’s not logical, Arya. It’s love.”

Love. _It’s love._ Love. _I love you, Theon._ The words are etched into Theon’s brain, ringing in his ears, surging through his body. Love. A four-letter-word. A concept Theon hasn’t known much of. He loved his mum, and she went away. He loved his sister only to be separated from her. He loved his best friend only to be abandoned again. What is the sense in love? Jon loved him, and all Theon did was throw it back in his face and break his heart. That’s love for you. It never ends in anything but disappointment. And tears. 

Theon angrily wipes his cheek, focusing on the exchange before him. Jon is walking to the door with Arya, but when she’s about to open it, Jon holds her back and sighs. 

“Wait,” he says, bending and retrieving a wrapped item from a little cabinet. Jon turns it over in his hands. “I left all my presents with your mum yesterday, but can you do me a favour and take this? Not that he’d want it, just… I’ve had it for years now and it’s time he got it. Even if…”

Arya throws her arms around Jon, just in time for him to crumble again. 

“Come home for Christmas, Jon. Don’t stay here all alone. I’ll tie him up in the garden shed.”

Jon laugh-snorts through his tears, straightening again. “Don’t, okay? I’ll be fine, I’ll come over on Boxing Day when he’s gone. He needs you guys more than I do.”

This unnecessary selflessness makes Theon’s chest clench in anger, and something else. “You go, you damn idiot,” he says out loud when the door closes and Arya is gone. “I’ll leave tonight, okay? They want you there more than they want me. Jon, you fucking idiot!”

“He can’t hear you,” Robb says, his sad blue eyes following Jon through the room, watching as he sits down on the couch. “And if he could, he’d insist on it anyway.”

Jon sniffs, falling forward, burying his face in his hands and Theon can’t bear it anymore. He stumbles over, falls to his knees, hands fluttering as he tries to reach for Jon. He groans in frustration when he can’t, the longing to touch Jon so sudden and violent it hurts. He wants to hold him, kiss his pretty face a thousand times, wants to be held by him in turn, safe and warm and wanted, wants to feel what he felt before all things had turned to shit. 

“Theon,” Robb says behind him. He sounds choked, voice thick. “Theon, we have to go. My time is nearly up.”

“Fuck you,” Theon snarls, whipping his head around. “We can’t just leave him like this, all lonely and… and… can’t you stay with him?”

“No,” Robb says and now he’s crying too. “But _you_ can, Theon, don’t you see that? You’re as lonely as he is but neither of you _have_ to be!”

“You don’t get it, do you.” Theon shakes his head, gets to his feet. “It won’t end well. Yes, I can give in for now, call him over. He’d come in a heartbeat. And he’d come into bed with me and he’d love me and in the end I’d say something hurtful and he’d be in pain once again.”

“You could just love him back,” Robb whispers.

“I can’t. I don’t want to. Love isn’t for me.” Theon shivers, suddenly feeling cold. “I told him, I told him not to. He wouldn’t listen, and I let him. And look where it got us.” He swallows painfully. “I’m scared, Robb.”

***

_“Jon, about what you said…” Theon sidles out of Jon’s arms, sitting up, turning his back on him. “Did that come out because you were balls deep inside of me or did you… I mean…”_

_“I meant it.” Jon sits up too, wraps his arms about Theon’s chest from behind. “I know we haven’t been together long, it’s just something I know. I knew almost immediately.”_

_“You shouldn’t,” Theon says stiffly. He can still feel Jon in him, can feel his touches, his kisses. It feels too good, too comfortable. “I’m not really the type for that kind of stuff.”_

_“What, love?” Jon presses his face against Theon’s back, chuckling softly. “You’re forgetting something, Greyjoy. I know you. I’ve known you for years. I don’t expect grand declarations or sappy romance from you. But you’re still with me, after more than half a year. That’s got to mean something, right? And I do expect you to be man enough to hear what I feel for you. I love you. Live with it.”_

_Theon smiles to himself as Jon starts trailing kisses up his spine until his lips are on Theon’s nape, warm and insistent. Maybe he can live with it._

***

Robb’s face is a grimace of sympathy mixed with disappointment as he walks over to Theon, arm outstretched. Theon looks down on Jon one last time, wishing he could at least stroke his hair, feel the silky curls under his fingers. Have Jon look up and smile upon seeing Theon, bend down to kiss his plump, smiling mouth, just one more time. He can’t, and he’s grateful for it. It would break him apart, both of them. 

“Bye, Jon,” he whispers before he touches Robb’s arm and is whisked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cracks are starting to show.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to say goodbye to Robb. And guess what? Theon fucks up again.

They arrive where they started off, back in Rickon’s room, and again Theon confirms with a look on the alarm clock that no time at all has passed since he walked in to find Robb waiting for him. But unlike yesterday, Theon’s not feeling tired at all, on the contrary. His emotions are in uproar and without further ado he starts searching for his phone, finally finding it behind the pillow, rather than in the pocket of his jeans where he’d stuck it last. He doesn’t wonder, just chucks it down to another ghost trick.

“What are you doing?” Robb asks, curious. 

“Calling Jon,” Theon mumbles, opening his recent calls list. Jon’s number is on top. “I have to talk to him–”

“Really?” Robb sounds positively delighted and Theon shoots him a glare. 

“Not like that, you moron. I’m going to convince him to show his arse here on Christmas Day. Which he can do without fearing any run-ins with nasty ex-lovers, seeing as I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“What?” Now Robb’s face has lost all colour, he’s as white as a… well, as a ghost. “Haven’t you understood anything?” he asks, desperate. “I really thought… I believed…”

“I understand that I have to call Jon now, if you allow,” Theon says, already pressing the button. 

“So this is farewell then.” 

“Just a moment, okay? I’ll be with you in – Robb?”

He’s gone. He’s gone and Theon didn’t say goodbye. Shocked, he sits down on the bed, lets the phone sink into his lap. Robb is gone, just like that. Tears well up in Theon’s eyes so suddenly he can’t do anything to stop them, a choked cry escaping his throat. 

“Theon?” 

He looks down on his phone, having no idea why it is talking to him. 

“Theon, I know it’s you, your name is on my display.”

Jon. Theon blinks, remembering what he meant to do, what he meant to say to Jon. But the urgency has vanished with Robb, and now all Theon wants is one more moment with his best friend, one more chance to tell him how much he misses him, loves him. There, love again, a different kind, but all the more real. Theon shivers, choking on his words, but he does bring the phone to his face.

“Jon,” he croaks, “I need you.”

***

_“Can we talk?”_

_“Same old song, Snow?” Theon grins mockingly, one arm stretched across the doorway, effectively blocking Jon - anyone - from entering. “Listen, I already told you. Sorry, not interested. It was fun while it lasted, it’s not you, it’s me – no, that’s a lie. It is you.”_

_“Why are you doing this?” Jon sounds tired, but he doesn’t budge. “How can you throw everything we had away? Now? Robb wouldn’t want–”_

_“Shut up,” Theon hisses, dropping any pretence of holding it together. “He’s_ dead _, Snow. And I don’t care what he’d want. I don’t want_ you.”

_“Theon,” Jon tries again when the door closes in his desperate face. “Theon, I need you.”_

_“Too bad,” Theon mumbles as he locks the door. “Not my problem at all.”_

***

“Are you sure I shouldn’t come over?” Jon asks again. “You don’t sound too good.”

Theon leans back, still amazed at how easy it is. Jon hadn’t even hesitated for a second before offering to come, hadn’t asked a single question. After making sure no one was dead, he’d just started talking to Theon, as if their last encounter had never happened. He’s just there, like he’s always been, steady and gentle and caring. Maybe that’s the hardest to stomach. Jon really cares, there can’t be a doubt about it anymore. No hidden agendas, no ulterior motives… Jon is real. Jon is dangerous.

“No,” Theon says, “we’ve been through that.”

“Like, what’s the worst that could happen?” Jon asks with just a hint of impatience. 

_I could let you love me. I could pretend with you. I could refuse to ever let you go again._

“Please, Snow,” Theon says out loud, trying for a mocking tone. “We both know that the second you’re here my cock would be lodged so deep inside your arse it’d make you cough.”

“Sure, that’s how it’d go.” Jon chuckles, and the sound is so lovely Theon has to bite his lip to not beg Jon to come over this very second. 

“Nah,” Theon drawls, swallowing what he really wants to say. “But you know, I meant what I said. You should spend the holiday with your family. Just give me a few hours of sleep and a good breakfast and I’m off, and you can go back to sweeping pathways and singing carols and all that.”

“I feel like a stupid parrot.” Jon sighs. “They’re your family too, you have to stay, I’ll be fine.” He pauses, long enough Theon’s about to ask if he’s still there when Jon continues. “If you weren’t such an idiot about it we could all be together and no one would have to fuck off or stay away.”

“All together, like a happy family?” Theon snorts. “Careful, Jon. You’re doing the wishful thinking thing again.”

“I know. Can’t help it, sorry. That’s how I am, and you can’t change me.”

_I wouldn’t want to._

“It’s getting late… or early,” Jon says when Theon doesn’t reply. “Rickon’s going to arrive today and don’t forget the annual visit.”

“You go,” Theon says, a little too harshly. “I don’t see any use in weeping over a bunch of stones.”

The mere thought of going there, going to Church and the little graveyard behind it, is enough to make Theon’s skin crawl. For a moment he can actually see it, him and Jon, side by side, head bowed over the stone bearing Robb’s name… Maybe with Jon there it wouldn’t be so bad...

“Theon–”

“Farewell, Snow,” Theon cuts him off. This has to end or he’ll say something he’ll regret. “Thanks for talking to me, I guess. Don’t do it again.” Theon laughs, a short, bitter bark. “Why are you doing this, Jon?” **  
**

“You said you needed me.”

“Well,” Theon says as coldly as he can muster, “I was wrong. I don’t.”

With that he hangs up, pushing the phone away. That had been a stupid idea. The longing he felt for Jon wasn’t quenched by the conversation. On the contrary, it’s turned into a physical ache, inflaming every nerve in his body. A glance at the clock shows him that it’s nearly one am, which means they’ve talked for almost an hour. Not that Theon has actually told Jon what had happened, nothing about ghosts or journeys to the past or anything like that. Nothing about Robb. 

Theon undresses slowly, slumps onto the bed, too riled up to close his eyes. Instead he lies there, staring at the ceiling. A sudden thought has him sit up again, he leaps to his feet, turning on the light. It doesn’t take long to find it, still lying where he’d flung it, face-down, little wings on its back sticking up sadly. Theon bends, picking Aegon the Dragon up, twisting it until he can look in its mournful face. 

“I’m the most pathetic person on this planet,” he tells it, and takes it back to bed. 

What would’ve happened if he’d said yes? Told Jon to come over? Swallowed his pride and accepted the offer… Jon would’ve come as fast as he could, he would’ve climbed the stairs and opened the door, would’ve found Theon sitting on the floor… And Theon would’ve had to pretend he wasn’t blown away by Jon being there, would’ve pretended to be all cool and aloof… He closes his eyes, turns onto his side, pressing the little plush toy to his chest. Maybe he can pretend now. That things are as they used to be. Just for a moment. 

***

_The soft knock on his door comes as a surprise. Theon blinks into the dim light of his room. “Yeah?” he yawns, stretching his limbs._

_“Hey.” Jon’s face appears in the door, wearing an eager expression. “Did I wake you?”_

_“What… I thought you’ve all gone,” Theon mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Are you back already?”_

_“Nah, told Cat I have an upset stomach. Robb’s backing me, said I was hogging the bathroom all night.”_

_Jon grins sheepishly, and finally Theon wakes up enough to realize what that means._

_“We’re alone? All alone?”_

_“Exactly,” Jon says and walks in, closing the door behind him. “Thought we could use the time wisely. They left…” He looks at his watch. “Ten minutes ago. The service lasts about an hour, then Cat’ll talk to Father Luwin for at least twenty minutes, then Ned… we have about two hours, I reckon.”_

_“Then move your arse over here and let’s get started,” Theon says, lunging forward and grabbing Jon’s arm. He tugs, and with a surprised cry Jon topples over onto the bed. “Hi,” Theon says, and then he takes Jon’s face in his hands and kisses the living daylights out of him. “Missed you,” he mumbles once he comes up for air. “Was a good idea to fake a stomach ache. Poor stomach.”_

_And with that Theon rigs up Jon’s shirt and starts placing little pecks on the flat muscles until Jon is writhing and giggling, trying to shove Theon further down. “Not so fast, you greedy bastard,” Theon says, taking his time with Jon’s trousers. “Two hours is a lot of time. One can do a_ lot _in two hours.” And then he squeals in a decidedly unmanly fashion when Jon’s hands close around his wrists and Theon finds himself flat on his back all of a sudden._

_“Two hours isn’t that long,” Jon says, looming over Theon with an ominous look in his eyes. “In two hours I can only fuck you twice… three times, maybe, when you’re fast.”_

_“I can be fast,” Theon says a little breathlessly, for now Jon has started grinding down against him in a delicious, tormenting way. “But I rather feel like sucking you off today.”_

_“Two times then,” Jon decides, stopping in the middle of one particularly mean thrust to sit back, and in one second he’s freed his cock from his pants and is presenting it to Theon’s grinning mouth. “Know what? I missed you too.”_

_They make good use of their time, enjoying that there aren’t any direct neighbours to upset. And when Theon lies on his stomach, Jon draped over him and moving in him, he doesn’t hold back. Soon enough they’ll be pretending again, that they’re nothing more than two guys who grew up together. Maybe it’s unnecessary, Theon thinks later, when Jon has moved to his side, nosing at Theon’s sweat-damp nape. Maybe next time they come here they can make it official, shock Catelyn out of her mind. Oh noes, the sinners! It isn’t as if they were her own children, she’ll survive._

_“I love you,” Jon whispers behind him, and Theon melts a bit more inside._

_***_

“Hey asshole!”

A loud knock on his door startles Theon awake, and a bleary glance at the clock shows that it’s eight in the morning. He must’ve fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of his trip down memory lane. He shifts, extracting the little dragon plushie from under his body, suddenly disgusted with himself. What a fucking, pathetic, weak–

“Did you hear me, dumbass? Time to go and pray for what’s left of your black soul!”

Filled with a violent rage completely out of nowhere Theon throws the toy as hard as he can, and it hits the door with a dull thud. “Fuck off,” he screams, to the dragon, to Arya outside, to Jon in his mind and heart. “FUCK OFF, all of you!!!”

“Whatever,” Arya says after a moment of silence. “Stew in your own juices then.”

“Fuck off,” Theon mumbles again, pulling the covers over his head. “Just… fuck off.”

“How rude,” a dreadful voice says from way too near. “I’ve just arrived.”

Theon lifts the covers, fearing the worst. And really, next to him in bed, propped up on his elbow, his uncle Euron is grinning at him. When he sees Theon looking he winks, blowing him a kiss.

“Time’s up, nephew,” he says. “The third Ghost is on his way. You’ve blown it.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon does something VERY overdue. But, as so often, he's quite late. Maybe too late.

Theon doesn’t linger, doesn’t hesitate. Cursing loudly, he jumps out of bed and into his clothes, the same as the day before but it doesn’t matter. Out, only out. Euron watches him from the bed, cackling amusedly. 

“Run, little Theon! Run as far as you can, it doesn’t matter. Death will catch you, you can’t get away from him.”

This has Theon pause halfway into his jeans. “Death,” he echoes, staring at his uncle. “ _Death?_ ”

“Of course Death, you muppet.” Euron rolls his good eye, swearing rudely when it gets stuck. He sticks a finger in the socket to get it loose, producing a horrible squelching sound that has Theon feeling nauseous. “It’s always Death with Dickens, isn’t it? No matter the adaptation.”

“Fuck Dickens,” Theon mutters, shuddering in disgust as he’s zipping up his sweater. “He can come in person and suck my dick if he likes.”

“That’s Wilde you’re thinking of.” Euron grins. “Old Charlie didn’t play for that team, boy.”

“Whatever.” Theon marches to the door, not turning around. “Goodbye, Uncle. I hope we’ll never meet again.”

“We won’t,” Euron calls after him gleefully. “Not until you’re cold in the ground, my boy!”

His manic laughter follows Theon as he hastens down the stairs, past the living room with the Christmas tree and the presents beneath into the kitchen. He puts on his boots, his coat, not bothering with the flimsy scarf he bought. That stupid thing isn’t doing anything against the cold anyway. Theon’s car doesn’t start at the first try, he curses, shouts at it, and finally the engine roars to life. It’s ice-cold, the sky is dark, the car doesn’t warm up quickly enough and by the time Theon arrives at the supermarket he’s frozen through and through. 

At least inside it’s warm. Theon walks fast along the aisles, only stopping once for a packet of double chocolate chip cookies before continuing to his real goal. When he’s reached the liquor aisle, Theon slows down. That’ll take a while. With Death on his heels the right kind of alcohol is essential. Or he’s going gaga after all, then the right kind of alcohol is even more essential. Theon takes his time, lingering at the gin for a moment before dismissing it. Same goes for the rum, the vodka, the dozen kinds of sherry and brandy. Theon smiles to himself when he reaches the scotch. It was always going to be scotch. 

A half hour later and shivering like a chihuahua, Theon exits the still barely heated car, passing the kissing gate into the churchyard, making his way through the crowd at the market. The huge wooden doors of the church are closed, but behind them Theon can make out singing. They’ll all be in there, Catelyn and her brood, faithfully joining in at the top of their lungs. Maybe Jon is with them, and for a moment Theon can almost imagine hearing his out-of-tune crowing. 

He could still go in. He could still join them. The worst thing that could happen is earning a reproving glare from old Father Luwin for being late. If he’s still in office, that is. He’d been old for as long as Theon can remember. He can still feel the box on the ear he’d deserved for nicking apples from the vicarage garden. _The best apples are always the forbidden ones._ Theon smiles weakly. The poor old man had spent a great chunk of his time chasing Theon, Robb and Jon from his property, never ratting them out though. Tough old bugger.

It's entirely possible he’s still up on the pulpit, deaf as a doorpost, with the same kind smile as back then. As long as his apples were safe at least. 

Theon shakes the thought off, turning away from the doors and heading down the path around the left side. The graves start here, at first only some scattered, old ones, with crooked, moss-covered stones. The inscriptions are unreadable, have been for some time. Bran had spent a lot of time here before his accident, trying to decipher old dates and names and imagining stories about the people buried here. 

Behind the church building are the newer graves, generations of Winterfell’s families, all in the same spot, a nice, cozy congregation of dead people. Theon ignores the familiar names, the Cassels and Umbers and Karstarks. His goal is the large marble tomb nestled into a corner of the walled-in graveyard. A whole bunch of Starks have their final resting place there. Ned’s parents, Rickard and Lyarra Stark, and their children, Brandon, Eddard and Lyanna, Jon’s mum. The only one still alive from that generation is Ned’s brother Benjen. He’s working at a research base somewhere in the Arctic as far as Theon knows. 

Theon takes a deep breath, stepping closer. He looks down on the newest nameplate. 

_Robb Stark, Beloved Son and Brother. Sleep well, dear child._

No beloved cousin, or friend. 

“Hey, mate,” Theon says, sitting down on the edge of the slab. “I’m sorry I’m only visiting now.”

It’s quiet in the graveyard, no hint of the voices from within the church. Somewhere a bird twitters, and Theon looks up just in time to see the little animal land on a twig of the mulberry tree next to the tomb. It eyes him curiously, sticking out his orange chest and twittering again. A single snowflake lands on its feathers and Theon scoffs, making a face.

“A _robin?_ A fucking robin in the snow?? Way over the top, Robb. You old drama llama.”

There’s no answer, but Theon hasn’t expected one. He retrieves the bottle of Talisker he’s bought from his pocket, his fags and the matches from the other. 

“Listen, man,” he mumbles, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag. “I want to apologize for how I acted when – I don’t know, when I dreamed of you? When you visited me? Whatever, here’s the thing. There were so many things I should’ve said. At the very least I should’ve said goodbye before you left.”

Theon takes a long draw of his whisky, immediately feeling warmth spread in his belly, seeming to flow through his whole body. 

“I was so fixated on calling Jon I barely noticed you leaving until it was too late. Story of our life, right? I was with Jon when it happened too.” Another sip, Theon wipes his mouth. His hand with the fag is shaking. “You have no idea how often I asked myself if it would have made any difference. If I’d been with you instead of riding your cousin’s dick.”

A sudden gust makes Theon shiver, a candle on a grave behind him falls over and Theon chuckles. 

“TMI, huh? Sorry. But that’s probably what I was doing when that fucking bastard lost control over his fucking car.” He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference, I’m aware of that. I don’t think I’m made of hero material, you know, throwing myself in harm’s way to rescue my best friend, that kind of thing. Still…”

The bird chirps again. Theon drinks, laughs. 

“There it is. The truth. I couldn’t look at him for months. His fault, right? Yeah, I know. Figured out how stupid that thought is by myself, thank you very much. But by then it was too late, wasn’t it? Robb?”

Theon listens, for an answer, a sign, anything. It stays quiet. 

“Couldn’t tell him that. And then he still tried and I – I couldn’t live with it. All his stupid, unconditional _love._ You know me, mate.” Theon grins, swaying a little. He can’t feel his legs. “Not my style, _love._ Can’t deal with that stuff because you know what? The moment I let it in, something happens. He would’ve met someone else who could give him more. He would’ve left. Or he would’ve been taken from me like my mother, like you. Can’t win this shit game.”

It has started to snow heavier, thick, soft snowflakes slowly making their way to the ground. They land on Theon's hair, tickling his cheeks. He catches one on his fingertip, watching the beautiful crystal form melt away into a small droplet of water. It feels stupidly symbolic, snow melting away, the graves, the evanescence of everything. The cold doesn’t bother Theon at all anymore, he barely feels it with the whisky burning in his stomach. It’s almost peaceful. 

“I love _you_ , man. Always have. Should’ve told you while you were still alive and kicking, I know. You’ve always been easy to love. Safe. Not giving me wet dreams – well, not once I had my Sturm-und-Drang period behind me, certainly.” Theon grins, lazily dusting a layer of snow off his lap. “You were my best friend. My only real friend. Would never have risked that. An innocent love.”

Theon laughs again, wipes his curiously wet eyes. 

“As far as I can do anything innocently, that is.” He suppresses a sob, beating his fist against the marble, losing the long extinguished cigarette butt in the process. “How could you leave? You damn fucker. I miss you, Robb. Do you hear me? I miss you so much it still feels like I’m not myself. You were the only one who loved me just for myself. Not because you wanted me, not because I could give you anything, not because you had to. You just did.”

Theon lights another fag, immediately forgetting about it, letting it go out in his hand.

“You know, I can almost hear you. What about Jon, you’ll say. Jon loves you, Theon. Don’t be such a moron, Theon.” He sighs, drinks, shudders. “Yes, Jon loved me. It was wonderful. Everything was so perfect. I was too happy, wasn’t I? It just...couldn’t...last. And now it’s too late and I’m someone else and I’m never going to risk it again. Being so happy, only to have it taken away. I just can’t, okay? I love him too much to lose him like I lost everyone.” Theon stills, groans. “Oh, fucking _fuck_!”

He hiccups, making a noise between a sob and a laugh, sounding ridiculous and hysterical. 

“There, you have it. I said it, didn’t you want that?” A confession, an acknowledgement. “Fuck you. Love. _Stupid fucking love._ I love him more than I loved you and _I’m fucking scared to death!”_

The air changes suddenly at his last word, becomes heavy. The robin stops singing, it’s eerily quiet. Theon looks up and around, a vague sense of dread in his chest he can’t explain – until he sees the dark, hooded figure, standing perfectly still on the snow-covered path. Theon stares, wide-eyed, an ice-cold feeling seeping into his body, and then the figure slowly raises a hand. A hand made of bones. 

“ _No_ ,” Theon gasps, swiveling around fully. The sight is like a cold shower, sobering him in an instant. He slips on the marble, stumbling, falling, gaze fixed on the thing that is now coming nearer, so slow, almost unnoticeable. But it’s coming. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Theon scrambles to his feet, retreating further until his back touches the wall of the tomb, the panic crippling him. “I’m sorry, I’ll do it, anything, I’ll change, okay?”

He turns, hammering his fists against one of the nameplates. “Ned, help me! You can’t let him get me, please! _Please!_ ”

Nothing happens, no stern Eddard Stark comes to his aid, not this time, and Theon cries out, sheer terror making it almost impossible to breathe. He looks over his shoulder, whimpering when he sees it. The figure has continued to come closer, unmoved by Theon’s words or pleas, unstoppable. It has nearly reached him, one arm outstretched, almost touching him–

“ _Stay the fuck away from me, you asshole!!_ ” 

Theon’s heart beats faster and faster, he pants, his vision going black every other second, the naked bones of the thing’s hand barely an inch from his chest – Theon closes his eyes, he screams as it touches him and the world vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you've all been speculating who the third Ghost is, and I gave it a lot of thought. But in the end it could only be Death.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let's start the journey into the future, and it's fucking bleak. Theon's own fault.

His heart is still beating. Theon touches his chest, feels the rhythm under his fingertips. Maybe he’s dead. He doesn’t _feel_ dead. 

_You are not._

Theon’s eyes snap open, his gaze falling on a large, black stone cross, only inches from his face. He stumbles back with a curse, nearly falling when his feet catch on something. It’s the edge of the Stark tomb, and when Theon looks around he notices he’s still where he was before that thing had appeared. But something is different. The snow is still falling, but not touching him, as if he were encased by some kind of bubble. He’s not cold either. 

_You are in my realm._

“Fuck!” Theon flinches when he turns and sees the figure from before standing next to him. “I’m dead, I knew it!”

_Not yet._

The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t make a single sound, but somehow Theon can hear the words in his head. It’s strange… He doesn’t feel afraid anymore. Maybe he’s finally accepted it, all the weird things that are happening to him. Not that they have been of any use, the only thing he’s completely positive about is that he has to get out of Winterfell, away from the Starks and away from Jon. Away from love. 

“Can we get this over with?” Theon asks the figure beside him tiredly. 

_As you wish._

The cloak swishes as the figure - Death, Theon guesses - steps aside, revealing a freshly dug grave beside the Stark tomb. It’s empty, a large heap of earth lying next to it. Theon squints, trying to make out the inscription – and his blood freezes to ice when he does. 

_Theon Greyjoy_

His name. His birth date. And another date, a date only a few days in the future. Theon sways, falling to his knees as he reaches out. The stone feels cold under his fingers, and real. 

“This is… but you said…”

_Your future. The one you chose._

“What,” Theon says bitterly, biting his lip to prevent himself from starting to shout. “I reject some people and then I just...die? From what, assholitis? Or will I slit my wrists once I go properly mad from all this shite?”

_You were here too long. It is cold._

“Oh.” 

It makes sense, of course. Getting shitfaced in a graveyard in below freezing temperatures wasn’t that good an idea to begin with. 

“So this is real? I’ll die?” Theon laughs, sounding hysterical to his own ears. “If this is a dream I want to wake up now, please.”

 _We have to go._

“Of course,” Theon mutters, getting to his feet. “Show me how they’ll be so much better off without me.”

He closes his eyes as the bones touch his arms, and the familiar swirling motion sets in. The landing is a lot softer than with Ned or Robb, and when Theon opens his eyes they’re in the brightly lit kitchen he left just hours ago. They’re all there, who’s left of the family, Cat and the girls, Bran and a young man who must be Rickon. And Jon. They sit around the table, their plates piled high with food, but the air doesn’t feel merry or festive at all. And then Theon sees why. Three unused decked places, instead of the one he remembers from past Christmases. 

It’s a tradition, one that had started when Ned had died. The first Christmas after Sansa had laid the table, unconsciously putting up a place for her father too. When she’d noticed there had been a lot of tears, but then Robb had said, why don’t we leave it like that? It feels like Dad is still here that way. And that had been that, Ned had always had a place at the table. Theon swallows against the sudden lump in his throat, again counting the empty places. One for Ned, one for Robb, one…

Sansa’s fork clatters onto her plate, she presses her hand against her mouth. Arya, sitting next to her, reaches out, drawing Sansa into a tight hug. She strokes her back, whispering something. She’s really good with the whole comforting thing, Theon thinks, first Jon, now Sansa…

“Sorry,” Sansa says, straightening again. She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “It’s just so...so…”

No one answers, but the lines around Catelyn’s mouth deepen and Jon’s already pale face gets even whiter. The pain in his eyes is unbearable. 

_They grieve. For you._

“For me…” Theon turns to look at his silent companion. “But why? All I ever did was alienate them! I never helped anyone, I never thought about anyone but myself all the time, I never…” He falls silent, unable to wrap his head around it. 

_They are your family_.

“No, they’re not, that’s the whole point.” Theon exhales, feeling dizzy. “They don’t have any obligation towards me, we’re not really related, they just…”

_They just love you._

“I am _horrible_ to them!” He nearly shouts it, the contradictory feelings too much to keep in. “Why the _fuck_ are they so stubborn? Why can’t they just leave me alone, why do they… why…” His knees go weak, he stumbles, catching himself on the back of an empty chair. 

_It is what it is._

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Fortune Cookie, I got that.” Theon cackles, sounding more desperate than amused even to his own ears. “Why are you showing me this? I’ll be dead. Causing them more pain.”

_Your life. Your choice._

“This is not what I wanted. I just wanted to be alone. Spare them my fucking asshole company.” And now they do this. _Will_ do this. They’ll have a place for him at their table. 

_They always did._

His eyes are smarting, his mouth is dry. One after the other he looks at them. Catelyn, her face familiar in a way Theon hadn’t noticed before. Her eyes are the same blue as Robb’s, her hair a brighter colour where Robb’s had been more auburn than red, but the similarities are fascinating. She’s still beautiful, despite the tiredness lining her face. Theon thinks of the coat she’s done up for him, of the note she’s left, of all the little things he’d dismissed as unimportant. Maybe she didn’t really like him, for reasons, Theon’s aware, but she did care. 

Bran, somber and quiet, but that’s nothing unusual. Still, his gaze wanders to the empty plates every so often and his mouth tightens. Theon looks at the young man to Bran’s left, unable to match the adult features to the little boy Rickon had been the last time Theon had seen him. He’s taking after Cat as well, the same eyes and hair, but he’s leaner and shorter than Robb had been. He’s been right, Theon thinks, Rickon is built a lot like himself. Arya is the only one of the siblings who really resembles Ned and the other Starks, just like Jon. Both have the typical dark eyes and hair, the long face and the pouty mouth. Arya’s looks angry, frowning, but her eyes are more sad. Theon thinks of what she said to Jon about him. She understands Theon, understands why he is how he is. 

“Grasshopper,” Theon mutters, longing to hear an insult back. 

He looks on to her sister. Sansa is pale, her eyes - another blue pair like Robb’s - are red. She’s cried for him, for all of them. Theon watches her take up her fork again and when her sleeve rigs up he starts, staring at a series of little bruises on her wrist. He studies her closer, noticing how thin she is, how careful she moves. What the fuck is wrong with her? 

_She met someone. He isn’t good for her._

“And why doesn’t anyone do anything? Why doesn’t Jon kick his arse? Why… why…” Theon stops, rage constricting his chest. “Why???”

_She doesn’t listen._

“She would the fuck listen to me!” Theon snarls. “Okay, you win. Let me get out of this and I’ll talk some sense into her. I can’t let that happen!”

Death doesn’t answer, and Theon wants to grip the black cloak and shake the fucker until his bones rattle. Instead he tears his gaze away and looks, finally, at Jon. His pretty Jon, his cheeks so pale instead of the red Theon had always teased him about. He misses it. His eyes, his lovely eyes, are dull and glazed, as if his thoughts are miles away. Does Jon think of him? Does he miss him? Theon thinks of their last conversation, the phone call. Jon seemed so serene, so at peace. 

_He is aching. He was then and he is now, but you were blind and deaf to his tears._

Jon the crybaby. “I thought they made him look weak. Needy.” Theon smiles when the first rolls down his own cheek. “Not my style.”

_We have to leave. You have more family in this world._

“Will I ever see them again?” Theon asks quietly, again looking at their faces, gaze lingering on each of them. 

_This is not for me to decide._

“I want to,” Theon whispers, and Death touches his arm. 

This time he recognizes Asha’s place, nothing seems to have changed. Except that there’s no kitschy little plastic tree this time, and only one cup in the sink. Ash is sitting on the couch, alone. She’s staring at the telly, zapping through the channels and groaning whenever she comes upon a Christmas special. Her other hand, the one not holding the remote, is closed tightly around a bottle of gin. 

“Where is the blonde girl?” Theon looks around for any sign of her, unable to detect one. “Why is there no Christmas stuff?” Ash had always had some decorations, no matter how ironic or half-assed. 

_Your sister does not celebrate anymore._

“My fault, isn’t it? Because of what I said to her… I didn’t mean that _literally_ with the gin, for fuck’s sake!”

_Because you are not here._

Theon just glares at Death. Why should his being here or not have any influence on Ash? They meet once or twice a year maximum, it’s not as if she’s missing anything. She has her work, her friends, she has…

_You were the last._

Fuck. It’s true. Her whole family… It had only been them, and a couple of crazy, absent uncles. And one of them is rotting on some dump in Brazil, the other one has locked himself into a monastery. She’s all alone. The last Greyjoy. Theon tries to imagine how he would feel, would it be the other way round. If Ash were to die and leave him behind… His eyes smart, flowing over and Theon inhales harshly. His chest is tight, pain shooting through him at the mere thought and he presses a hand to his mouth. It’s too much… But Ash is tougher than him, always has been, she should be okay–

“Asshole,” Asha slurs, picking up something from the coffee table. She looks at it, then flings it across the room. It crushes against the kitchen cabinet, coming to lie face up on the floor. The glass is shattered, and behind it Theon sees himself, Ash, and Jon. It’s the pic Asha had sent him – will send him– Theon’s head can’t take it in, it’s too confusing. 

_You sent it back unopened._

“No,” Theon says harshly, “I wouldn’t – not even _I’m_ such an ass–”

He is. He was. He would. Theon groans. Actually it’s _exactly_ what he’d do… would have done… had done? 

“I don’t mean to, I don’t want that!”

More tears are coming, blinding him, obscuring Asha’s curled-up form from his view. 

“I’m sorry, Ash,” Theon whispers. “I swear I am.”

_Our time here is up._

Theon doesn’t take his gaze off his sister as Death takes him away.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, time to say goodbye to Jon.

The stalls are slightly different from the market Theon had visited… had it really been only three days? But it still looks pretty much the same, mulled wine, tacky decorations, nativity scene. There aren’t too many people, maybe owing to the light drizzle of rain. Seems this future Christmas isn’t as cold as Theon’s. For a moment he’s confused – why would Death take him to the market? But then Theon sees him. Them. He’s surprised how much it hurts, a sudden, blinding stab of pain when he looks at Jon kissing someone else. 

The someone is taller than Jon, and broader, wild, ginger hair and a fashionable beard. A typical bear. Not who Theon had thought Jon would go for. But he does seem to be into him, smiling and talking… Theon can’t hear what they are saying over the music and noise of the crowd, but he can see Jon’s lips moving. And in between talking they kiss, little soft pecks, some turning into longer kisses, and every single one gives Theon another painful jolt. 

The bear laughs about something Jon has said, pulling him close, rubbing his arms. Keeping Jon warm. Back then it had always been Jon who’d kept _Theon_ warm, when he’d been dressed too flimsy once again. Now he’s being cared for like he deserves, treated like something precious, something to cherish. Theon’s eyes fill with tears at the thought. It could’ve been him, if he’d only had the guts. If he hadn’t been so selfish. He sniffs, blinking the tears away.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asks the mute figure at his side wearily. “Do you intend to torture me? Congrats, it’s working. But then I was right all along, wasn’t I? He’s better off without me.”

_Is he?_

“Would you look at him?” Theon gesticulates at the couple locked in another kiss. “He’s happy. He’s found someone who makes him happier than I ever could.”

_Appearances can be deceiving._

“Yeah, but that’s Jon. I know Jon. I know how he looks when he’s happy! You know how he’s smiling when he’s just polite? Like, you can totally tell by his eyes when he’s doing that. But this…” Theon jerks his head at Jon, with his head on the bears chest. “That’s his real smile. The one where his eyes crinkle and his mouth does that strange thing with the corners actually turning down instead of upwards, and when you kiss that smile he makes a little sound…”

Theon sniffs again, wiping his face. His hand comes away wet but by now he doesn’t care anymore. He’s lost the fucking game. And it hurts more than the knowledge that he’ll be gone in just a few days. The knowledge that he’s lost Jon. But at least… Theon tries to smile, not quite making it. At least Jon isn’t alone anymore. Not heartbroken. That’s got to count for something. He barely notices the touch on his arm, doesn’t mind when the market vanishes. 

But then he recognizes Jon’s apartment, recognizes the man on Jon’s couch, half covered by a blanket, sprawled over Jon’s body, recognizes the sounds Jon makes. And that, right there, is too much. Theon staggers back, fumbling around and catching a handful of black fabric. 

“ _Please_ take me out of here,” he begs, yanking on Death’s cloak. “I understand everything, okay? I’m dead, I’ve fucked it, it’s over. No need to to hammer it home.”

_You need to see._

The words, though strangely sympathetic, carry a sense of power, there’s no use in fighting, and so Theon watches, chin held high, lips tightly pressed together and those fucking tears freely running down his cheeks. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_. At long last they’re done and the man kisses Jon before getting up and vanishing in the bath. Theon looks after him before turning his gaze back to Jon. He’s rolled onto his side, curled up, head on his arm. He stares at nothing in particular, and his eyes… Theon takes a step closer automatically. Jon looks inexplicably sad. 

The scene shimmers, changes before Theon can make sense of Jon’s expression. This time they’re thankfully clothed, both of them. Jon is sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands. The ginger man is walking around, crossing from the living room into what must be the bedroom and back, carrying stuff around. Clothes, books, a magnet from the fridge. He’s packing, Theon realizes with a strange, sinking feeling. He’s going away. 

“Can’t we just talk about it?” Jon says from the table. He looks up and Theon is struck by how tired and pained he looks. “Please,” Jon continues. “I can try, okay? I’ll get better eventually, I’m sure… please.”

The man stops in his wandering, his eyes on Jon. He looks sad too, and weary. “You won’t. I know you tried, and I did my best, but… I can’t live like that, Jon. I love you, but I can’t.”

“I’m sorry!” Jon’s mouth twists into a pitiful grimace. “It’s just… I need more time. I really… I really like you, I do. But it hasn’t been that long, I can’t help still… being still…”

“It’s been two years, Jon.” The man shakes his head, sighs. “It doesn’t get better. You don’t get better. I waited and waited, I hoped I would be enough, but…”

Jon sits motionless, but suddenly his fist hits the table, making Theon flinch. “He – I can’t – _fuck!!”_

The words seem to fail Jon and he goes quiet, the sudden anger vanished again. Theon frowns. It’s not really like Jon to be lost for words. With Theon he never had problems expressing how he felt, had always been open and saying what he wanted to say and… 

Another memory, a different Jon. The Jon from before they were dating. Quiet, sullen Jon. Theon shakes his head, trying to understand. He was so different when they were together. Why would he be back to quiet and sullen now? 

_He lost his love._

“My fault again?” Theon mutters when Death speaks in his mind. “I’m to take the blame for everything, okay. Fine. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon echoes Theon’s words. “I tried.”

“I know you did.” The big man’s voice is kind. “I’ve been watching you try so hard, Jon. He was that great, big thing in your life and you never really got closure. You still cling to a memory. I wish you the best. I hope you’ll be happy again one day. I just can’t wait for it anymore.”

Jon doesn’t say anything else while the man finishes packing, he doesn’t say a single word when he puts on his jacket and shoes, he doesn’t move when the man bends down and kisses his head. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t plead, just sits there, completely resigned, like a fucking statue. This is so typical of Jon, and Theon wants to take his shoulders, shake him until he wakes up. He’s throwing this away, someone who could make him happy, who _did,_ for a while at least. And for what? A sad memory. 

“I’m not worth that,” Theon mutters. “He can’t live his whole life with my miserable shadow hanging over him.” He turns to Death, staring at the black void where the face would be pleadingly. “He’s right though, yes? Jon’ll get better eventually. Won’t he? This is not… not how his… please tell me he’ll get better. He sounded so calm when we talked on the phone before. I really thought–”

_You were wrong._

Death waves a hand and a different scene appears in front of Theon, vague and dim, like a strange sort of picture in picture. Theon sees Jon, smiling as he talks into his phone, but it seems strained. Jon hangs up, staring at the display. The forced smile glides off his face, he gasps, doubling over, gripping his torso as if he’s falling apart. His pain is palpable, cutting through Theon. _Oh Jon…_

“He’s a good actor,” Theon says, swallowing against the thick lump in his throat. 

_Enough. I am the Ghost of Christmas Future._

The scene dissolves. More Christmases flash past, and most of them Jon seems to spend at the Starks or alone, sometimes there’s someone with him, but never twice the same person, and never does Jon look happy for longer than a moment. And maybe this is what hurts the most, more than seeing Jon happy in someone else’s arms. Theon’s own arms feel empty, the longing to wrap them around Jon overwhelming. Make him smile, just one more time. 

_You made him smile. For a while._

For a while… It’s no use fighting the memories anymore, not now, at the end. And so Theon allows it, lets them flood his mind. The first kiss under that mistletoe, the first date, the first sex… 

It’s always been hard, recalling those times. The happy ones. Hardships are easier to focus on. Theon’s good at it, wallowing in all the ways he’s been wronged, recounting everything that had gone to shit. Everything he did wrong, but mostly other people’s mistakes. Now, though… Now it’s different. The good memories come easily, one after the other, warming him from the inside. 

Jon with his trademark broody expression, disapproving of something Theon has done. And all it takes to make the pout go away is one touch, one kiss, a few well-placed compliments and Jon melts into a puddle. Waking up next to Jon, being able to just reach out and find his warm body close, not being alone. Breakfast together, bickering over who gets the last sesame bagel, the comfortable domesticity of it. Going out, all of them together, with Robb and sometimes Asha. Trying to get Jon to join him and Robb on the dancefloor, which only happened when he was completely wasted. 

Theon smirks, thinking of drunk Jon trying to dance the Macarena, looking more like he’s fending off a swarm of bees than anything else. How they had teased him, Theon and Robb, until Jon had pretended to be affronted. And then Theon had made every effort to appease him again, to the point where Robb had protested and advised them to get a room. And when they did…

Jon’s face when he really lets go, uninhibited, his deep, dark eyes, the way he says Theon’s name, the way he does everything to make him feel wanted, the way he just gives and gives and _gives_...

All those moments fill him with a sense of peace he wishes he could share with Jon. Theon knows Jon can’t hear him, knows he can’t touch him. It’s what he would do, show Jon what he’s so bad at putting into words, if only he could. But there are some things he needs to get off his chest. Maybe, when this day comes in a far off future, Jon will hear him somehow, like some ghostly whisper. Maybe Jon will get the Dickens treatment one day, and Theon will be sent to scare the bejesus out of him... 

“Hey, Jon,” Theon says, cursing himself for how ridiculous his voice sounds, choked and hoarse. “Look, I don’t know how much time I have left. Death is waiting over there – yes, _the_ Death – and he probably is just dying, haha, to drag me into my grave or something.”

He walks over to where Jon is slumped on the couch, head leaned back, eyes closed. Theon sits down next to him, a strange feeling, but the couch is solid enough beneath him. Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t give any sign of noticing something has changed. Maybe he’s asleep. 

“You don’t hear me, I get it. And it’s too late, and I’ve blown any chance I ever had and… But it’s not over for you, okay? That one guy, the big one with the beard – I’ve seen the two of you and I think you were wrong to let him go so easily.”

Theon reaches out, despite the futility of the gesture, laying his hand on Jon’s, resting on his thigh. 

“I can almost feel you,” he whispers, and Jon’s hand twitches. “I’m sorry I did this to you. And you mustn’t… you shouldn’t think of me anymore. What did I ever do to deserve that? Nothing, that’s it. And I’m…” He breaks off, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this when you needed it, but… What you said... I did, too. Do. I really do.”

_It is time._

This time the words in his head carry a strange, comforting sense of familiarity, something he can't quite make out. Theon doesn’t protest, what for? He gets up, steps over to where Death is waiting for him. He looks back one more time, determined to etch Jon’s face into his mind. Something to take with him.

“Love you,” Jon mutters, shifting. There’s something glittering on his face. 

Theon smiles, despite the ache in his heart, before he turns to face his fate. 

“Let it end then,” he says.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of all things. And we don't even have a Samwise Gamgee with us.

Death takes him back to where he picked him up, back to the graveyard and to the new grave. Theon is shocked to see that it is filled now, the earth looking undisturbed, grass growing on it. But apart from earth and grass there’s nothing there, no wreath, no candles, no flowers. The patch is bare, safe for a light cover of snow, the stone looks empty and cold. Theon swallows, looking around at the other graves. They’re full of everything his is lacking, festive decorations and little greetings of loved ones. 

Death doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, seeming to wait for something. Theon turns his back on him, crouching down beside his gravestone. He touches it like he did when he first saw it, again tracing the letters and dates. They feel flat, not freshly chiseled anymore. He doesn’t understand it. Why does this feel so empty, so unloved? What Death has shown him… it’s love. That’s the whole point of the ordeal, isn’t it? Show him how he’s been loved. And now, now that he can finally believe it… Now no one cares? No one comes?

How far away is this? How many years have passed since… since it happened? There’s no indicator to tell him, nothing – and then he sees a fresh grave, the earth naked, no grass, only a heap of flowers covering it. Theon straightens, stumbles over. His vision swims and it takes a while before he can make out the date of death. But eventually he does, stumbling back in horror. It’s nearly ten years. Ten years since he died, ten fucking years. A lot can happen in ten years. People get older, people forget… 

Maybe he’s been forgotten. 

Why else would there be candles burning on the Stark tomb and not on his grave? Why else would there be no one coming, no one bringing flowers? It’s cold, despite Theon not being able to feel the air, or the wind. It’s cold inside of him, as if he’s already dead. He could be, it’s not as if he knows how long this trip has taken. Maybe a lot longer than the previous ones. Maybe Death operates differently than ghosts do. At least, Theon thinks with a hint of desperate amusement, he knows how to do a soft landing when Beaming them around.

Theon looks around, at the silent graveyard, at the cloaked figure waiting for him. This can’t really be happening, can it? It’s _got_ to be a dream. A fucking nightmare. Any moment he’ll wake up in his bed, laughing about how ridiculous all of this is… Theon screws his eyes shut, concentrating with all his might. _Wake up, wake up, wake up!_ But when he opens them again he’s still where he was, still at the graveyard, still in the silent company of Death. 

A sudden wave of anger surges through Theon. It isn’t fair! It’s just not fair, none of this is. What has he done to deserve this… this… Does he really deserve to die? Fucking well not! Theon grits his teeth, staggering over to Death. 

“Take me back,” he growls, balling his hands to fists. “Take me back _now_ , you ridiculous bogeyman! I am not just going to meekly sit there and die just because you and a mediocre, victorian author say so!”

But Death doesn’t react, doesn’t even let on he’s heard him, and just like that Theon deflates, his anger evaporating. 

“Okay, wait, just one moment,” he says quickly, half-baked thoughts racing through his mind. “We can make a deal, can’t we? People always do that in stories. Like, how about I promise to be a lot better? I swear it, I’ll be the best person ever. I’ll donate to charity. I’ll work in a soup kitchen. Fuck, I’ll adopt a bunch of orphans like the dude from that film with the little yellow guys.”

Death doesn’t move, doesn’t react. 

“I’ll do _anything_ ,” Theon pants, starting to panic in earnest. “Is it a soul you want? You can have it, okay, just not yet, not now, not before…” He sobs, pressing his fists to his eyes. “I’m too young. I haven’t done anything with my life, I haven’t…”

Sadness crushes over him like a wave and Theon doubles over, trying to hold himself together. Faces flicker before his eyes, people who are long gone. Ned, and Robb… his mum… The thought of her is crippling. What would she say if she could see him right now? Would she console him, weep for him? Or would she be horrified at how badly he’s fucked it up, bad enough for Death to come and get him… He thinks of the others, the ones still alive, and how much he’s disappointed them. Yes, he deserves this. He deserves everything. No wonder there’s no one here, no wonder no one visits his grave. He deserves to be alone, unloved. 

And then, all of a sudden, they’re there. Coming towards him, eyes trained on the sad, empty grave. They’re looking through Theon, not seeing him at all, but the simple fact that they are _there_ fills him with an overwhelming sense of gratitude, and love. Sansa has her arm through Jon’s, leaning against him as they come closer. In her other arm she has a huge bunch of flowers, while Jon is carrying a large Christmas wreath. 

They stop just next to him, and Sansa goes down onto her knees as she places the flowers against the stone. Her face is drawn, she looks more like her mother than ever. Ten years… she’s thirty-five, Theon realizes with a jolt. He’s missed ten years of her life. That means Jon must be… Theon braces himself, looks into Jon’s face. And laughs shakily. He’s as pretty as he’s always been, maybe his forehead is a little more lined, and he wears his hair slightly shorter – but he doesn’t look any less beautiful at thirty-seven than he did at twenty-seven. 

Jon bends, resting the wreath next to the flowers before pulling two large, white candles from his coat pockets, putting them down on the grass. Sansa has produced matches from somewhere, lighting the candles and putting the lids back on them. They both look at the tiny lights in silence for a moment, then Sansa starts talking. 

“Hey,” she says, pressing her hand into the snow for a moment, leaving a print. “Mum sends greetings. She’ll come with the others after mass tomorrow. And I got this from Asha.” She pulls an envelope from her pocket, placing it between the candles. “She’ll be coming over for Easter again, until then…”

Ash? Coming to Winterfell? She doesn’t even know Sansa, they’ve never met as far as Theon knows. But then maybe they’ve met at his funeral or something like that. Jon could have introduced them. Maybe they’re friends now. Jon clears his throat, seems to be lost for words once again. Sansa straightens, stroking Jon’s back in a gentle gesture. 

“I’ll wait at the car,” she says, smiling at Jon who smiles back gratefully. “Take your time.”

Sansa kisses Jon’s cheek and then she’s gone. Jon waits for a long moment, shuffling his feet and looking at the sky, but finally he focuses his gaze on the stone. He shivers, and Theon is gripped by the sudden longing to wrap his arms around him, keep him warm. Give back just a little bit of what Jon has given him. Jon sighs, taking one more look around before he lowers himself to the snowy ground. 

“Get up, you moron,” Theon says immediately. “You’ll get, I don’t know, a cold in your prostate or something.”

“Asshole,” Jon mumbles, and Theon looks at him in shock for a moment before he understands that Jon isn’t answering. It’s more of a greeting. 

“You fucking asshole,” Jon repeats, reaching out to straighten the envelope between the candles. He doesn’t say anything else, just sits there, lost in his thoughts. Maybe he’s violently cursing Theon in his mind, too polite to say most of it out loud in a graveyard. Theon sits down too. He doesn’t feel the cold ground, and like this he can see Jon’s face – fuck. Jon is crying, silent tears running down his cheeks. Not cursing then, Theon thinks, rather–

“I miss you,” Jon says suddenly. “It’s been so long and I still miss you. It just doesn’t go away. And I feel really stupid talking to a grave like this. I know you can’t hear me.”

“I can,” Theon says quietly. 

“I’ll do it anyway, because I’m that pathetic,” Jon says with a crooked smile. 

“You’re not.” Theon reaches out, takes his hand back again. “You’re amazing, love.”

“Yearly pilgrimage, eh? To tell a stone that I still love it. I love you, asshole. Always will.” Jon sniffs, placing his fingers to his mouth before touching the stone. “Yes, I really did that,” he says with a little laugh. “You’d hate it. Too sappy.”

Theon laughs dejectedly. “You have no idea, Jon. Sap is my middle name these days.”

Jon bows his head, remains silent. Voices are coming from the market in front of the church but he doesn’t seem to hear them. He just sits in silence, unaware of Theon sitting with him, unable to make his presence known. Theon’s eyes are fixated on Jon’s face, drinking in the sight of him. His beautiful, sad Jon… He deserves so much better. He deserves to be loved. 

Finally Jon takes a deep breath, gets to his feet. He looks like he wants to say something else, but then he just wraps his coat tighter around himself and with a last, long gaze he leaves. Theon scrambles up, feeling panic rising in him. Jon can’t leave. 

“Jon!” he calls, trying to follow him, but it’s as if he runs into an invisible wall. “ _Jon!”_

But he’s already gone.

Theon stumbles back, his knees too weak to carry his weight, and he goes down again, slumping onto his back, onto his own grave. The cold in his body is spreading, he feels tired. Theon looks at the sky above him, the darkest blue, littered with millions of tiny lights. It’s a clear night. The night before Christmas. There’s a joke in that somewhere but Theon can’t quite catch it, his eyes get heavier and heavier. Death is with him, he can still feel his presence, and somehow it's comforting to know he doesn't have to do this all alone. And... They’ve been here. Jon has been here. He still loves him. And with that single, happy thought Theon closes his eyes, awareness fading out. 

He’s been loved.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe it? The nightmare is finally over!

“Hey asshole!”

The knocking in his head is sudden and Theon sits up with a jolt, staring around confusedly. What the fuck – where–

“Did you hear me, dumbass? Time to go and pray for what’s left of your black soul!”

“Oh my god,” Theon croaks, swinging his legs out of bed. Something falls next to him with a soft sound and he stares at the little plushie dragon. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!!” With two long strides he’s at the door, ripping it open and making Arya jump. “What day is it? WHAT DAY IS IT?” 

Theon screams in her face, gripping her shoulders. Arya looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. 

“The twenty-fourth,” she says. “Christmas Eve? Good gods, how much did you drink last night?”

The twenty-fourth… He’s back. Theon gasps as he realizes what that means… what it means for him. He’s alive. He’s not dead, he’s still here, they’re _all_ still here! He whoops, ripping Arya in his arms and swinging her around. 

“What – have you lost – let me _down–_ ”

“It’s Christmas Eve!” Theon shouts, feeling almost faint from the joy surging through him. 

“It most certainly is,” Arya says grumpily when Theon sets her down, swaying a little. “What of Church now? I’d rather you didn’t come, I want Jon there.”

Jon…

“It’s the twenty-fourth,” Theon repeats, but this time it’s horror rising in him. “Tomorrow is Christmas.” Oh fuck. _Fuck!_ He doesn’t have any presents. Not a single one. “You go, you go,” he says hastily. “I’ll come – I’ll meet you later, okay? I have to… things to do…”

“You do that.” Arya rolls her eyes, turning to go. “We’ll be in town all day, just call Sansa when you decide to show your stupid face.”

Theon laughs, caught between panic and exhilaration. “I will,” he says. “And, Grasshopper?” Arya turns back and Theon winks. “I just wanted to tell you, no matter what, I really love you all.”

And with that he closes the door right into her flabbergasted face. It feels fantastic, saying it out loud, it’s not as hard as he thought it would be. Arya’s as good a place to start as any, but there are others, more urgent ones. Theon searches for his phone. It’s a long drive to Ash’s, there’s not enough time… Finally he’s found it, hastily pressing Ash’s number. She picks up after endless ringing, yawning into the phone. 

“It’s half past eight in the morning, you asshole,” she grouses. “If there hasn’t minimum been a death–”

“Sorry, sorry,” Theon interrupts her. “Look, it’s kind of an emergency, okay? I need to see you, but it’s a two-hour-drive and I need to be back here as fast as I can.”

“Drowned fucking _god,”_ Asha groans. “I’ll meet you at the White Harbour service station, that’s pretty much in the middle. And god have mercy on you if this isn’t a life or death situation!”

Theon doesn’t waste any time. He takes the quickest shower of his life, not even letting his hair dry before he jumps into his clothes and races to his car. The only stop he makes is at a liquor store where he buys the most expensive bottle of gin he can find, together with a set of two fine, crystal gin glasses. He taps his fingers impatiently while the shopkeeper wraps them up in fancy Christmas paper. Then finally he’s on the road again. 

Theon thanks his lucky stars. The streets are clear and relatively empty. Most people are probably already with their families, too cozy to go out much. Theon smiles to himself, going a little faster. He’s on his way to _his_ family, a part of it at least. And when he pulls into the parking lot at the service station, his heart makes a jolt. Ash’s car is already there, empty, and Theon hurries into the little coffee shop. 

He sees her immediately. She’s sitting at one of the tables, clutching a cup of coffee – and she’s not alone. The blonde girl is with her, sitting next to her. They’re whispering with each other, and Theon stops as Ash smiles at something blondie says. They look really good together. Happy. And then the girl looks up, sees him standing there. She squints, saying something to Asha before getting up and vanishing into the attached shop. Asha is looking at Theon now, too, one eyebrow raised sceptically. 

“Hey,” Theon says, unable to hide the huge smile spreading across his face. Not that he wants to. He slumps into a seat opposite her. “Thanks for meeting me here, I know it’s early.”

“It fucking is,” she grumbles, but there’s a small smile playing around her lips. “Now where’s the fire? Who’s dead?”

“I am,” Theon says, laughing when he sees her horrified expression. “Not literally - thank fuck - just, like…” How had Arya put it? “You could call it a Christmas epiphany, I guess.”

“Theon…” Asha says threateningly. “If I drove here for one hour on the morning of fucking Christmas Eve only for you to tell me you’re going to buy the biggest fucking turkey for the neighbourhood–”

“I’m sorry!” Theon shouts right over her, and Ash goes quiet, looking at him with a puzzled frown. “I’m sorry how I behaved on the phone the last time you called. I’m sorry for pushing you away for the last six fucking years. I’m so, so, _so sorry_ for not behaving like a brother should. For not taking any interest in what you’re up to. I don’t even know your girlfriend! I’m sorry!”

Ash opens her mouth, but Theon isn’t done yet. 

“And I want to thank you. Fucking overdue, I know,” he says when Asha looks as if she wants to say something again. “Shut up, let me finish. Thank you for everything. For what you did for me all my life. For protecting me from Maron and Rodrik. For being there when Mum lost her marbles. For caring for me. For letting me go to the Starks. For keeping in touch and not giving up on me and being always – fucking – there.”

He can’t stop the tears from coming, and although he’s more or less used to them by now Theon still feels embarrassed about bawling in front of his badass big sister. Who looks like someone has shot her. Asha’s mouth is hanging open, her eyes are as wide as saucers and – Theon looks closer. Are her eyes _wet_ or something? She doesn’t say a word, and Theon starts to get anxious. 

“I know I don’t deserve it, okay? What I deserve is a decent slap. But… can you forgive me? I solemnly swear I’ll be a better brother from now on.”

“Forgive you.” Asha blinks. “ _Forgive you??_ You absolute, fucking bastard…” And with that she jumps up, and before Theon knows it she has gathered him in her arms, squishing him to mush. “Whatever happened to you? Don’t answer. Oh god I’ll start crying, stop it.” Ash lets go, taking a step back to study him. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Better than ever.” Theon grins. “Now why don’t you call your girlfriend over? I’d like to meet her.”

“How the fuck do you know she’s my girlfriend?” Asha asks, looking thrown.

“Oh please,” Theon says, feigning arrogance. “One look at the two of you was enough. I know you, sis.”

Asha looks as if she wants to cry again, but then she just sniffs, boxing Theon’s arm hard before going to the shop to retrieve blondie. Theon straightens, trying his hardest to look like a nice, non-prick person when Ash introduces him to the girl. 

“Dany, that’s my little brother,” she says. “Who has been bodysnatched or something.” 

“A Christmas miracle,” Dany says with a sarcastic undertone, but her smile is sincere when she shakes his hand. “I’m happy to finally meet you, after the many, many stories Ash has told me.”

“Old stories,” Theon quickly says. “Not up to date. But I’d love to get to know you better. You two seem pretty settled.”

“That’d be lovely,” Dany says, elbowing Ash standing next to her, once more open-mouthed and with a disbelieving look. “You could come back to ours for lunch if you like?”

“No time, unfortunately.” Theon sighs. “I have a lot to do… What about New Year’s? I could come over, we could spend it together?”

“It’s a date.” 

Ash brings him to the car, still looking like she doesn’t know what to make of all this. Theon grabs the present from the backseat, holding it out to her. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says. 

Ash stares at the neatly wrapped box as if it contains a ticking bomb. “Thanks,” she finally says. “I sent yours via mail, but it’s not much, just a little… well…”

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” Theon uses Ash’s apparent confusion to hug her once more. “Love _you_ , sis.”

And with that he lets go, getting into the car. He can see Ash in the mirror, staring after him. Theon smiles. She’ll get used to it. 

The drive back to Winterfell seems to take ages, but finally he’s there. The family is still out, thank fuck. There’s not much time left to get everything he needs. Presents for Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Cat. Something for Jon. And that one better be fucking meaningful. But as much as he thinks about it, he comes up empty-handed. Cursing, Theon walks back out. There are two more things he has to do before he can solve that problem. 

The first station is a narrow, unassuming building, looking like most of the buildings in this part of town. Theon fervently hopes it’s the right one. He clutches the bottle of fancy Bordeaux he’s got together with the gin, taking a deep breath - and ringing what he thinks is the right bell. 

“Yeah?” an unmistakably male voice comes from the speaker. 

“Fuck,” Theon says, then, “sorry. I’m actually looking for Mary?”

“She’s door eighteen,” the man says. “Merry Christmas!”

“Same,” Theon mumbles, ringing the bell in the same moment as the door flies open – revealing Mary, wrapped in a thick coat and sporting a wooly hat.

“Hey,” she says, stopping in her tracks. “Fancy seeing you here. Were you looking for me?”

“Actually, yes. But you seem to be going somewhere.” Theon eyes the large bag she’s carrying. “I won’t keep you, just… Merry Christmas.”

“Wow!” Mary takes the offered bottle, reading the label. “That’s so nice of you! I don’t even have anything to give you in return…”

“No need. I guess I just wanted to thank you. You’ve been so lovely. Hey, you could wish me luck.” Theon grins when Mary raises her eyebrows questioningly. “I’m going to try and get him back. The guy I wanted to forget, you remember?”

“Oooh, good luck!” Mary beams all over her round face. “Did you change your mind then?” When Theon nods, she laughs. “Oh, I’m happy for you. This seems to be the Christmas of miracles.” Her smile turns impish. “You’ll never guess what happened. My ex-fiancé called. Muttered a lot of codswallop about ghosts and Christmas and second chances… I’m going to meet him. I must be crazy.”

Theon stares at her, letting out a bewildered chuckle. That fucking Dickens… “You’re not crazy. He is, if he lets you get away again.” Mary blushes prettily, and Theon grins. “Hey, listen. I need an idea… something to get for Jon, for Christmas. It better be something really good and, well, all I can think of is a coupon for sexy times.”

“Not too shabby if it's sexy times with you,” Mary teases, eyes glittering with delight. “But hey, I have an idea. Have you been to the Christmas market? There’s that one stall…”

Ten minutes later Mary’s on her way to meet her ex – poor sod, Theon thinks, remembering his own Ghostly ordeal – and he’s parking at the church. The market is thronged today, packed with people enjoying the festive atmosphere. Theon marches straight up to the baubles stall, rolling his eyes when Kyra glares at him from behind the counter. 

“Wait a moment before you start berating me, okay? I’m sorry,” he says, effectively shutting her up. “I’m sorry for how I behaved when we had our thing back then, I really am. And,” he continues when she wants to say something else, “I’m also sorry for how I behaved the last time. I’m here to pay for the bauble I broke. And I want to buy some of your others.” Kyra closes her mouth, but she’s still glaring at him. “Pretty please?” Theon says, giving her his best charming smile.

“Oh, _fine,_ ” she snaps. “Go ahead then, choose what you want. I don’t have all day.”

“Thanks,” Theon says with a grin. “I’ll try to make it quick. You remember how quick I can be, right?”

Kyra reluctantly smiles, and Theon gets to work.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon is a changed man, and it shows. But can he convince Jon after all he's done to him?

After being done at Kyra’s stall Theon rushes back to his car to deposit his purchases before going back. His next stop is the guy with the trees. There isn’t much stock left to choose from, this close to Christmas, and in the end Theon has to settle for a funny little gremlin of a tree, crooked and weirdly shaped and torn-looking – but it _is_ a Christmas tree. Or it will be one. Constantly looking over his shoulder, Theon swishes from stall to stall until he’s got everything he needs. 

The only thing he’s looking for in vain is the stall Mary mentioned. Pity, it would have been perfect. But a couple of stalls are already closed, and it must be one of them. Theon looks at other displays, different jewellery, but none of it hits the right spot just like the one Mary’s mentioned. _That smith guy makes beautiful stuff from Valyrian Steel. Very manly, and if your Jon is as pretty as you say…_ Mary had laughed, but Theon had been amazed. _That’s just perfect. Thank you._

Finally he’s done, the backseat of his car looks like Santa’s workshop and Theon is exhausted. It’s past lunch and mass is over, people start filing out of church and onto the already heaving market. Theon cranes his head, trying to make one of them out in the crowd. Predictably, they’re the last to appear, with Father Luwin propped up on Cat’s arm. Theon frowns when they’re all out, counting the heads again. Catelyn, Sansa, Arya, Bran, the young man who must be Rickon. That’s it. Where the fuck is Jon? 

“Hey,” Sansa calls, having spied him. She waves her hand in a beckoning gesture and Theon makes his way through the masses until he’s reached her. “Arya said you’d be coming later,” Sansa says, rubbing her gloved hands together. “Boo, it’s getting colder by the second.”

“Where’s Jon?” Theon asks without any preamble. “The grasshopper said if I stayed away he’d go with you.”

“He said he’s got an upset stomach,” Sansa says, and Theon rolls his eyes. That old excuse again. Sansa sighs. “To be honest I think he’s not well. When I went to pick him up he looked horrible. Tired and puffy.” 

Theon suppresses the urge to curse out loud, aided by Father Luwin’s piercing look. He half-heartedly returns Rickon’s wave of greeting, his mind elsewhere. Jon isn't well. He needs to get a move on. 

“You’re going to be here for a while?” he asks, and Sansa shrugs. 

“I guess. The boys are screaming for hot drinks, Arya’s met her old Capoeira teacher and Mum will inspect every single stall they have here. And then–”

“Graveyard,” Theon quickly interjects. “Yeah, I know. Look, I’ll try to meet you there, I just have to go back home for a moment.”

“Home?” Sansa echoes, looking at Theon as if he’s grown horns all of a sudden. “You mean… our house?”

Theon opens his mouth to make some sarcastic remark – and shuts it again. He can’t blame her. It’s always been the Stark house, never had he thought of it as his home, the word being more of an abstract concept. But now… Home is where they take you in, despite everything. Home is where they love you, even if they don’t have to. Another realization, coming late – but not too late. Theon grins, leaning forward to place a kiss on Sansa’s forehead. 

“I’ll try to make it quick,” he says and turns to go. 

Back home - _home_ \- Theon rummages through Jon’s former room until he’s found what he’s looking for: wrapping paper, adhesive tape and Christmas tags. Luckily Cat has stored all of that in abundance, and Theon takes his loot to the living room, settling at the coffee table to wrap his presents. After twenty minutes he’s more or less satisfied. The presents don’t look very pretty, clumsily wrapped, but it’ll have to do. 

Next he takes his ugly little tree, decorating it with the baubles and ornaments he’s bought from Kyra, pinching one of the garlands from the family tree. Then Theon takes a step back, surveying his work. It looks sad. Like a parody of an actual Christmas tree, but the saying goes that it’s the meaning that counts. Theon fervently hopes that’s true. 

Picking up his tree he marches out to his car and drives back into town, parking in front of the little cafe. At least this building has names on the doorbells. Taking a deep breath, clutching his tree, Theon presses the one saying _Snow_. It takes half a minute until the door buzzes open, a lifetime in Theon’s agitated state. He’s there. He’s made it, finally made his way back to Jon. Heart in his throat Theon climbs the stairs. And just when he reaches the landing, a door is opened, light floods the hallway and he’s there. Jon. 

Theon feels his lips stretch into a wide smile, at the same moment that his eyes are starting to smart again. Not that it matters, not with Jon. He’s always been a crybaby. Only now he doesn’t cry. He stands in his door, arms wrapped around himself, face dispassionate as he watches Theon’s approach. Theon doesn’t know what to say. All the things he wants to say, all the things he should be saying are gone, wiped away. All he wants is to take Jon in his arms. 

“Theon,” Jon finally breaks the silence, sounding wary. “What are you doing here?”

 _I’m sorry,_ Theon’s mind supplies, _I’m so sorry and I love you._ But none of those words make it across his lips, he just stands there like an idiot, clutching the saddest Christmas tree in the world. 

“Merry Christmas?” he finally manages, and it sounds like a question. He holds out the tree. Jon makes no move to take it. 

“Is this some sort of joke?” he asks tiredly. “Are you really going out of your way now to seek me out and have a go at me?”

 _No_ , Theon wants to scream. This is all wrong, nothing like he thought it would be. His feet are frozen to the ground, his stomach is a tight, painful knot of anxiety, he’s sweating and his body feels numb. He’s nervous as hell, as if this is a first date and not the glorious reconciliation he’s pictured. 

“Graves,” he blurts out, immediately wanting to kick himself. “I mean, won’t you come to the graveyard with the rest? They all want you there.”

“Did Arya send you here? Did she threaten you?” Jon shakes his head, his beautiful mouth a tight line. “No need to play the martyr, Theon. I’m perfectly fi–”

“If you say ‘fine’ one more time I’m going to _fucking strangle you!”_ He yells the last part, loud enough to startle Jon out of his rigid posture. “You’re everything but,” Theon continues. “You look like you’ve chopped a ton of onions. You’re pale like a fucking ghost and believe me I know ghosts! And if you don’t really have a stomach bug I’d cautiously guess it’s _my_ fucking fault!”

“Yeah,” Jon says after a moment. His face is heating up, red spots blooming on his cheeks. “It _is_ your fucking fault.”

And with that he turns on his heel, the door slams shut and Theon is left standing alone in a dark hallway, still clutching the world’s ugliest Christmas tree. 

In the end he leaves it there, in front of Jon’s door. No use in lugging the thing around with him. He ignores his car, it isn’t that far to the church. But the way still seems to take ages, every step jolting through him. His chest aches, and if he wouldn’t know better he’d think he’s about to have a heart attack. But it’s just sadness, crippling, agonizing sadness. Jon has stopped acting. 

He can’t give up now. Not when he finally knows his own heart. When he’s finally ready to be loved, and give something back. This can’t be it, can it? Jon must love him. _Jon must love him._ There’s no other possibility. Anything else would be too horrible. It’ll be harder than he thought, to convince Jon of his change of heart. That he means it. That he wants this. Be with him, take care of him. If Jon still wants it.

That thought is like a bucket of ice water. What if Jon is done with him? What if the last blow was too much, what if everything Theon has seen means that Jon isn’t desperate to get him back, but desperate for closure? Theon stops. He’s nearly reached the market. What would he do if Jon doesn’t want him back? Kidnap him, a voice in his mind says. Force him. But that’s ridiculous, and Theon tells the voice to shut up. They aren’t protagonists in a medieval drama series.

They need to talk. Tomorrow Jon will be there, Theon is sure. Arya will see to that. He’ll ask Jon to go somewhere else, somewhere they can talk. And he’ll tell him everything. Do his best to let Jon know how he feels, and if the worst should happen and Jon really doesn’t want him anymore… Theon shudders. It’d hurt. He’d deserve it. 

He marches on, through the stalls and the people, until he sees Sansa’s red hair. They seem to be ready to go, and when Theon joins them with a short greeting Cat immediately sets off towards the graveyard. They’ve waited for him, Theon realizes, and a little bit of the sadness lifts. Sansa links her arm through Theon’s like she did – would have done – with Jon when visiting Theon’s grave, and for a moment everything is so surreal he feels dizzy. 

It’s strange, being back here. Theon looks around the Stark tomb, searching for any sign of his being here yesterday – no, today. There is none. No cigarette butts, no half-empty bottle of scotch. As if it really had been a horrible nightmare and nothing more. Theon shakes the thought off. He doesn’t care. Real, a nightmare, very realistic hallucinations… the outcome is the same. 

He watches Catelyn place a wreath in the middle of the tomb, watches the others lighting candles, one for each of them. He keeps quiet, not wanting to disturb their silent prayers, but when he turns to the side, Rickon catches his sleeve. Theon looks at him, and Rickon, rolling his eyes with a mocking grin, holds out another candle. Theon takes it, his answering grin a little jittery. It feels as if they’re all watching him as he lights it and places it between Ned and Robb’s nameplates. 

“What,” he says as he straightens and looks into nearly half a dozen puzzled faces. “Have I got something on my face?”

“Yeah, the semblance of a normal human being,” Arya mutters before being elbowed in the ribs by Sansa. “What? He’s behaving strangely.”

“The Ghost of Christmas,” Bran says, completely unironic, and Theon hastily swallows a laugh, turning it into a cough. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “Better get used to it.”

It’s nice, this bantering and getting teased, but no matter how nice it doesn’t feel right without Jon. On the way to his car Theon thinks of nothing else. Should he go to Jon again now? Instead of waiting for tomorrow? Maybe he’ll ring the bell, and when Jon opens the door he’ll just start talking and talking and talking, and Jon won’t be able to do anything but listen. Or just kiss him… Theon touches his lips. They’re cold and chapped, not very kissable. He can’t even remember when he last kissed someone. When had he last kissed Jon?

Over six years ago. Six years, and he still remembers exactly how he tasted. Without consciously deciding to Theon bypasses his car and walks straight to the building door. Don’t do it, the voice in his head says, but this time it’s really easy to ignore. Theon rings, the door buzzes, and he’s once more on his way to Jon. He’s already waiting in the door, looking exhausted. 

“I forgot something,” Theon pants, out of breath after taking two steps at once. “Forgot… something important!”

Jon stares at him, something like exasperation on his face. “Sure,” he finally says and turns away, but this time the door remains open and Theon doesn’t waste his chance. He follows Jon inside, and it’s the same flat he’s seen before, with Robb and later with Death. Jon stops at his kitchen table, pointing at Theon’s ugly tree sitting there. “I didn’t want to leave it in the hallway,” he says. 

“Fuck the tree,” Theon says. “It’s for you, I saw that you don’t have anything in here. If you don’t want it, throw it out.”

“What do you mean, you saw–” Jon frowns. “You’ve never been here.”

“I’m here now.” 

Theon watches Jon’s expression change from suspicious to confused, hope flickering over his face for a tiny moment before he shakes his head, bites his lip.

“What did you forget if it wasn't the tree?” Jon asks, and his voice trembles.

A thousand answers shoot through Theon’s mind. I forgot to tell you I love you. I forgot to tell you I’m sorry. I forgot to beg you to give me one more chance. And maybe the worst of all, so corny Theon wants to slap himself for even thinking of it. Jon would think he’s lost it, would think he’s mocking him. So of course it’s the one Theon says out loud, consequences be damned. 

“My heart,” he says, and then, “... _fuck!!_ ” **  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jon, he's so confused. Theon really has to get it together. Thank fuck he's got a family to help him.

“That,” Jon says after the longest silence known to mankind, “is bizarre.”

“I know,” Theon says with a weak laugh. “Sorry. I just wanted to say...” 

It happens again. The words get stuck and he’s unable to say a single one of them. The irony is laughable, Theon who never shuts up, not finding any words. Jon looks at him with an indescribable expression, waiting patiently for Theon to go on, waiting for words that just won’t come, and Theon moves before he’s aware of it. His hands slide into Jon’s hair like they belong there, the soft, silky curls tangling around his fingers. Jon’s mouth opens, hot and wet, and it’s like coming home. Theon kisses him until he’s out of breath, trying to convey with his lips and tongue what he can’t say out loud. 

“I can’t,” he pants against Jon’s neck when he finally breaks away, “please, I don’t have the words–”

Theon’s heart, beating so fast, stops cold when Jon stiffens, steps back out of Theon’s reach. His mouth is red, his eyes blazing. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “But this time I really need the words.”

He brings Theon to the door where they both stand in silence for long minutes, on either side of the door. Theon opens his mouth, closes it again, repeating the motion until Jon sighs, almost smiling. 

“You look like a fish out of water.” The smile fades. “Look, Theon, I have no idea what’s going on in your head. What you said – how you behaved – none of that has changed the way I feel about you.” Jon shrugs. “But I can’t… Not without hearing you say what it is you want. Not without some sort of explanation.”

“I’m trying, Snow,” Theon says. “You know me, I’m not – I can’t–” He raises his hand, stroking Jon’s cheek, and for a moment Jon leans into the touch before he moves away. “Can’t I just show you?” Theon whispers. “It used to be enough for you to know...”

He leans forward and this time Jon doesn’t move away. It’s a very short, very sweet kiss. 

“Not anymore,” Jon says sadly, and the door closes between them. 

The way home is strangely blurred, it’s decidedly below zero now and the car heating hasn’t even kicked into gear when Theon parks the car at the Stark house. He doesn’t go in, sitting in the cold until everything feels numb and not so painful anymore. Not enough… And what if he doesn’t make it? What if he can never say it out loud, what if it’s stuck inside him forever? Jon deserves to get what he needs. 

It’s Sansa who comes to get him, knocking on the window and startling Theon nearly out of his skin. At her side he finally stumbles inside, almost slipping on the icy path, but then he’s there and light and warmth flood him, together with a noisy chatter of voices. He must look horrible, Theon thinks vaguely when they all swarm around him, a pair of hands ridding him of his coat, someone pressing a hot mug into his hands. 

“What’s wrong, man?” Rickon asks, steering Theon to the table and onto a chair. “You look like someone died.”

“Jon,” Theon mutters, eliciting a collective gasp from everyone. “He says he needs words. Words!” Theon looks up into puzzled faces. “And I can’t! I wanted to and I can’t and he won’t take me back before I give him the fucking words and I can’t get them out and they get stuck–”

“Write them down,” Cat says into the short pause when Theon inhales. He just stares at her and she sighs. “You used to be good at that. Writing. I remember your essays in school, always coming back full of grammar mistakes – carelessness mostly, don’t you think I don’t know that, young man – but there always was a note of praise from Mrs. Mordane for the style, the use of words and your imagination. Write down what you want to say.”

“That,” Theon starts, but Sansa is faster than him. 

“...is a wonderful idea, mum! Don’t you remember the love letters you used to write to all those girls?” she asks Theon, looking at him expectantly. “Robb was always in awe that you got them all to fall for you. It was the letters!”

“It’s useless to protest, fuckface.” A notepad slams on the table in front of Theon, and when he looks up Arya is holding a pen out to him. Her expression is a weird mix between smug and threatening. “You better write Jon a fucking _novel_. He deserves it.” She claps her hands together. “Let’s leave him to it, guys.” 

And with that they all exit the kitchen at once, moving upstairs, except for Bran. He points at his wheelchair, cracking a dry smile. “I hope you don’t mind me staying here,” he says. “Don’t feel like dragging this upstairs.”

“How do you even get up there at night?” Theon asks. Curious, he hasn’t thought about it until now. 

“Usually when I’m home for a visit Jon helps me,” Bran says, opening his laptop. “The last couple days Sansa and Mum did it.”

“Oh god. I’m so sorry.” Theon shakes his head, appalled with himself. “I chased him away and didn’t even think of how he’d be missed around here. Hey,” he adds, “why didn’t you ask me?”

Bran gazes up, giving Theon a look that has him turn to his notepad rather quickly. He chews on the pen cap, having not the slightest idea how to start. 

“What are you doing there?” he asks Bran whose gaze is fixed on the laptop screen. 

“Medieval online role-playing game,” Bran answers. “It’s very complex. Most people choose knights or dragon tamers as their characters. Mine’s a seer, a cripple.” He looks up, a tiny, somewhat creepy smile on his lips. “At the moment they don’t notice me much, but give me a couple more months and I’ll be the fucking king.”

“Sounds...interesting,” Theon says, for lack of a better word.

“Ah, you wouldn’t like it.” Bran laughs about a joke only he understands. “Go back to your notes. I need to manipulate a few idiots.”

Theon sighs, drawing a tiny skull on the paper. At last he writes, _Dear Jon_ , then pauses again with a sigh. This is fucking hard, he can’t even _write_ what he wants to tell Jon. 

“A list would be a good start,” Bran says calmly from the side. “Just list all the things you love about Jon.”

Theon throws him a curious look, but Bran hasn’t even looked up, still clicking away with that same, creepy smile. So Theon turns back to the notepad, writing a single sentence: _What I love about you_. He draws a round dot beneath, then closes his eyes. A thousand things come to mind, like Jon’s smile, or his eyes, his strong, square hands, his pretty hair… but when Theon starts to write it’s different things. The way Jon always helps people without a second thought. His ability to give without wanting anything in return. His steadiness, his warmth… The pen flies over the paper, and suddenly it isn’t hard at all anymore. 

Everything spills out of Theon, all the words he couldn’t say. He thinks of what he said to Jon at the grave, in his apartment, when Jon couldn’t hear him. He thinks of the phone calls, of their meeting in Robb’s room. Of all the stupid things Theon has said and done, of all the ways in which he’s hurt Jon, the last days and years. He thinks of the little dragon plushie, of all the memories, of everything Jon deserves to hear. It’s so easy all of a sudden, to tell Jon everything. 

At last he’s finished, and when Bran holds out his hand expectantly Theon gives him the notes without hesitating, as if Bran has every right to them. While he reads through them, Theon gets up, suddenly feeling famished. He makes himself a sandwich from what he finds in the fridge, eating it right there at the kitchen counter. Finally Bran lets the paper sheets sink, clearing his throat. 

“That ought to do,” he says, and smiles, a normal smile, not the creepy one. 

The others start to come back downstairs, and finally Cat comes to collect Bran. Theon follows them into the living room where Arya is kneeling in front of the tree, rummaging in the heap of presents. Of course, Theon remembers, another tradition. Everyone gets to open one of their presents on Christmas Eve. Sansa is sitting on the couch, already having opened hers. It’s Theon’s, and her eyes are shining as she winds the tie-dyed scarf around her neck. 

“Thank you, Theon,” she says. “It’s really beautiful.”

Theon just wants to answer when he’s interrupted by Rickon complaining that none of his presents look big enough for a new gaming computer. 

“Don’t be an ungrateful brat,” Catelyn says sternly. “How on earth do you expect me to be able to afford something like that?”

“Ned Umber has it _and_ he has an excellent gaming chair as well!”

“I swear if I hear his name one more time I’ll uninvite that boy for New Year’s!”

“But Mu-uuum…”

Theon grins, watching the exchange, when suddenly he sees something coming flying at him from the corner of his eyes; he turns just in time to catch it. Arya looks at him smugly. 

“You open this one.” 

Her tone allows no refusal, so Theon tears the wrapping paper off until he holds a little book in his hands. The title says, _Legends of the Iron Islands._ Theon swallows, stroking a finger over the fearsome kraken painted on the cover. His family comes from the islands. This feels like a connection, to a long gone past, and when Theon flips the book open he realizes why. 

_The Thousand-Year-Reign of the Grey King. Kingsmoot. The Drowned Men. Nagga the Sea Dragon. The Treasure of Old Wyk. The Great Golden Kraken._

All the stories his mum had read him and Asha, over and over, and Theon could never get enough of them. He can almost hear her voice, imitating a dragon screech or a kraken growl, can hear himself laughing and shrieking in delight. His hands holding the book tremble, and following a sudden thought he flips to the very first page. There’s something written there, in Jon’s handwriting, and the letters start to swim before Theon’s eyes as he reads. 

_I found this a long time ago, in a tiny little second-hand bookstore near our favourite cafe, you know, the one close to your flat. And being the stupid idiot that I am I immediately bought it, remembering what you told me about your mother and how she read stories to you. I guessed these were the ones, and I started to have wild, half-baked ideas of you reading them to your own family someday. I don’t know. Robb’s kids maybe. Sansa’s? Maybe even – but that was stupid._

_Seeing you again brought all of those hopes back. I’m writing this knowing you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again… But I still want you to have it. Maybe, in time, you will have a family. And even if it’s not with me, the thought of you reading from this book to someone you love… Please take it. Pack it away until you’re ready to look forward, think of me then rip out this page. Be happy, Theon._

_Love,_

_Always your_

_Jon_

Theon snaps the book shut, feeling all eyes on him. He looks up. 

“I need to go to Jon. Right fucking now.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I think Gendry is a himbo here. It suits him. Change my mind. :p
> 
> They finally!!! talk!

For a moment there’s stunned silence, then they all start talking at once. 

“Have you looked outside? There’s a fucking snow storm coming!”

“Tomorrow has to be soon enough.”

“Do you even have a present for Jon?”

“Ah,” Theon says at the last one, horrified. “I totally forgot about that! A friend gave me the idea to buy him something from the market, but when I got there the stall was closed – I don’t have anything!”

“What was it?” Sansa asks. “The thing you wanted to get him?”

“Mary – my friend – said there’s a guy who sells pretty stuff, Valyrian Steel or something. I wanted to get Jon some kind of…” Theon breaks off, suddenly feeling stupid. “Some kind of a promise bracelet. As in, I promise I won’t be such an asshole anymore.”

“One moment,” Arya says. “Valyrian Steel? Hah!” She fishes her phone out of her pocket, typing something then holding it to her ear. “Hey, babe! No, that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, you grab all the jewellery stuff you haven’t sold and move your pretty butt over to my mum’s – Gen – I don’t care if it’s going to snow – just get – _Gendry Waters, you WILL be here in ten minutes max!!!_ Yeah, I’ll ask.” Arya covers her phone with a hand. “Mum, Gendry can stay overnight, yeah?”

“Sure,” Cat shrugs. “In Rickon’s room, seeing as Theon won’t need it.”

“But don’t complain when he wakes you up because he falls down the stairs in the middle of the night trying to sneak into my room.” Arya pokes her tongue out at her mother before speaking into the phone again. “Ten minutes, babe!”

Theon watches her hang up. “What the fuck was that about?” 

“Fate,” Arya flutes, fluttering her eyelashes. “My friend Gendry happens to make stuff from Valyrian steel, and he did close up early today.” She grins. “In about eight minutes you can choose whatever you want from his assortment.”

And for the second time since they’ve known each other Theon pulls a surprised Arya into his arms. “Thank you,” he says, and then, “stop hitting me!”

It’s less than eight minutes when the doorbell rings, and Arya goes to let her friend in. When she returns she’s accompanied by a good-looking guy, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. He’s carrying a large box under one arm, setting it on the kitchen table with a loud, rattling noise. 

“Everyone - Gendry, Gendry - everyone,” Arya says. 

“Hi.” Gendry waves into the round before stretching his hand out to Catelyn who takes it. “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Stark. I’ll be on my best behaviour. Now where’s the emergency?”

“I am,” Theon says. “Thanks for coming. I wanted to buy one of your jewellery things for my – for Jon, but you were already–”

“Jon? Wait a moment…” Gendry appears to be thinking hard, then suddenly his face brightens. “You’re Theon! Didn’t you say he’s an asshole?” he asks Arya.

“Yes, I am. Was. I’m kinda trying to get over that.” Theon sighs. “Show me what you got.”

Mary was right, Theon thinks when Gendry starts unpacking his box. Each piece he unearths is more beautiful than the last, intricate metal braids forming circles, the woven strands shining and twisting around each other. The steel is of amazing quality, the style reminding Theon of stuff he’s seen in a museum back on the islands. One of them catches his eye more than the others, a bracelet that looks like a torque, two strands of metal snaking around each other, the endings small, beautifully crafted wolf heads. In the middle the strands part, framing a polished black stone. 

“This one,” Theon says, pointing at it. “What’s the black thing in the middle?”

“Dragonglass,” Gendry explains. “I’ve been experimenting with it lately. It fits with the pattern of Valyrian Steel. Wonderful material. You can do almost anything to it and it won’t break. The Freefolk far up north use it a lot. One of my friends from there gave me the idea.”

“I want that one.” Theon takes it in hand, admiring the little details on the metal.

“Are you sure? It didn’t come out like I wanted, it’s kind of a prototype. See here?” Gendry points to a faint, dark streak in one of the strands. “There’s a flaw in the steel right there. Fucks things up.”

“It’s perfect.” It’s like them. Jon, beautiful and unbreakable, and Theon, flawed and twisted like the metal. “What do you want for it?” he asks Gendry. 

“Nah, can’t take anything for that.” Gendry waves a dismissive hand. “If you really want that one, you can have it.”

“We’ll talk about that again,” Theon finally says. He wants to pay, but right now he also wants to get going. “I’ll be off, guys. See you tomorrow – I hope.”

“Don’t forget your notes.” 

Theon, already halfway into his coat, snatches them out of Bran’s hand and hurries out. The moment he gets outside the wind nearly blows him over, bringing sudden tears to his eyes. It’s icy, throwing gusts of snow at him that feel like tiny icicles pricking his skin. Cursing, Theon climbs into his car, fumbling the key into the ignition with shaking hands. The engine comes to life after a couple false starts, making slightly unsettling sounds when he puts it into second gear. 

The swirl of snow outside is getting thicker and thicker, blindingly white, and despite the urgency filling him Theon forces himself to slow down to a near crawl. The last thing he needs right now is a bloody car accident. It gets colder by the second, and after the longest half hour drive of Theon’s life he’s frozen through and through. There are no empty spaces at the cafe so Theon slowly drives the short way to the church, leaving his car parked askew across the parking lot. It shouldn’t matter, not tonight. 

The wind has gotten even stronger, cutting through Theon’s coat like a knife. His eyes water in the icy air, his cheeks burn, but he stumbles on until he’s reached the building. Theon leans against the door, trying to seek shelter from the violent gusts as he presses Jon’s bell. It feels like an eternity until the door buzzes open, and Theon nearly falls inside. His legs are stiff, making the stairs seem like an unscalable mountain, but finally he’s made it, and then there’s light, and Jon, looking utterly shocked. 

“What – good gods, Theon! What the fuck are you doing out in this weather?” He surges out to catch Theon, forcefully rubbing his arms. “You’re half frozen!”

“N-needed t-to get t-t-to you,” Theon chatters, unable to stop shivering. “N-need to t-tell you stuff.”

“You fucking idiot,” Jon says harshly, but his warm hand closes around Theon’s numb one and pulls him inside. 

Ten minutes later Theon is sitting on Jon’s couch, wearing one of Jon’s jumpers and a pair of sweatpants, wrapped in a blanket, a cup of tea with a generous amount of rum in his hands. Slowly the shivering stops, and Theon is able to take Jon in, sitting in front of him on the floor. His expression is guarded, his arms wrapped around his knees. 

“Thank you,” Theon says when he’s sure he won’t stutter anymore. “I think I’m starting to thaw a bit.”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “You bloody fool. Nothing can be so important you have to take risks like that. You could’ve just called me.”

“Nope.” Theon takes another sip, feeling warmth spread in his belly. “Too important to say it on the phone.”

“Go on then.” Jon nods curtly, and Theon takes a deep breath.

“I blamed you for what happened.” That’s not what Theon wanted to say first, but it comes out anyway. “I blamed you because I was with you when Robb died and not with him.”

Jon sits stock still, his eyes widening in shock. He clearly hadn’t expected that. 

“And I know that’s stupid and mean.” Theon hurries to continue. “But that’s what it was. That’s how I felt. Please don’t hate me.”

Time slows to a trickle, and Theon nearly regrets saying it. But if he wants this to work out, _really_ work out, Jon has to know. The crazy, the stupid, Theon’s fears, all of it. And so Theon waits, stomach churning nervously. 

“I don’t hate you,” Jon slowly says after a long while. “I can…for a moment or two I had the same thoughts.” Theon feels like he’s been hit, staring at Jon who gives a little shrug. “If I’d been with him instead of with you…”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” Theon drags the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He still feels cold. “I knew that. But I was too stubborn to acknowledge it.”

“You could’ve talked to me.” Jon seems to deflate, casting his gaze down. His lashes throw shadows on his cheeks. “Did you really think you were the only one who lost him? We all did! After Ned…”

This one catches Theon cold. Of course he knows he’s not the only one who ever lost someone, but then it hadn’t been the first time it had happened to him, had it? At least the rest of the Starks still had each other, even after Ned, even after Robb. And Jon… Theon swallows, starting to feel sick. Jon had lost his mother too, just like Theon. He lost her, his uncle who took him in, the cousin he’d lived with who had not only been Theon’s best friend but Jon’s too. And then, on the same day, he lost his love. 

“I needed you so much, Theon. I thought I’d die from the pain.”

“I’m so–” Theon starts, but Jon isn’t finished. 

“I played it over and over in my head. What had I done wrong? Did I say something, do something? What triggered you to throw me out like some random one-night-stand? I couldn’t find an answer. And you know what’s the worst thing? I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I missed you so much, all the fucking time, every fucking day.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t even tell you – Jon, look at me.” Theon leans forward, voice urgent, and then Jon does look up, eyes dark and wet and full of pain. Theon can’t bear to see him like that. “I was so selfish… I am so sorry for what I did. For what I said. It wasn’t true, none of it. Fuck, it took three ghosts and my bloody uncle to make me see it, but here’s the truth.” 

Theon takes a deep breath, gathering all his courage. 

“You and me… that was real. It wasn’t just fun. You were the best thing I ever had and it made me go mad with fear. You said you loved me, but love has never worked out and the thought of letting it happen, letting myself have that – the possibility of losing you after I lost–” 

Theon stops, chest heaving. The words are stuck again, and his notes are in the pocket of his coat, together with the bracelet. Theon exhales, looking everywhere but Jon, unable to stomach the disappointment he’s sure will be on his face. And then Jon’s hand is on his knee, stroking him gently. 

“It’s okay, Theon,” he hears Jon say softly. “You don’t have to force yourself to say anything. You already said so much more than I ever thought I’d hear from you. It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. Theon finally looks at Jon, at his handsome face with the worried little frown, and Theon’s heart stings in a way that’s both painful and sweet. It suddenly seems laughable, all the stupid thoughts and ridiculous fears. This is Jon, steady, kind Jon. There’s nothing to be afraid of, not anymore, and Theon leans forward, taking Jon’s face in his hands. 

“Alright then. I’m going to show you. I’m going to show you for the rest of my life how fucking much I love you.”

Jon laughs, a short, bitten-off sound, and suddenly Theon is pulled off the couch and onto the floor, right into Jon’s arms. Jon’s mouth finds his and stars explode in Theon’s mind as he kisses him with everything he’s capable of, he clings to Jon like life itself, his chest nearly exploding from the happiness swelling in him. 

He’s truly home.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the hardest part is over, but there's still a lot to talk about.

The need to feel Jon is overwhelming, and amazingly he doesn’t protest when Theon’s hands wander under his jumper, when Theon pulls it over Jon’s head. He bends down, kisses down Jon’s throat, to his chest, wants to melt together with his warm skin, never wants to stop touching him again. And Jon lets him, hands pulling at Theon’s borrowed jumper until that too hits the floor, their trousers dragged down, no barrier left between them. It’s so damn perfect Theon wants to cry, pressing down against Jon and finding him hard and ready for him, lifting his hips when Theon’s hand wraps around them both. 

He hardly knows what he’s doing, kissing Jon’s mouth, his chin, feverishly licking at his skin, tasting him, revelling in it. The sounds he makes...Theon has missed them so much, can’t get enough now he gets to hear them again, biting down on Jon’s throat to hear more. Jon is clinging to Theon’s shoulders, thrusting into his hand, fingers digging deep into his flesh. It doesn’t take long, too urgent, too good to last, a few hasty tugs and Jon spills first with a low groan. Theon follows soon after, gasping and saying Jon’s name. 

“I have a couple questions,” Jon says later. They’re still on the floor, neither moving further than they need to trade long, deep kisses. 

“Mmmh,” Theon makes disapprovingly. He’s lying with his head on Jon’s chest, eyes closed as he listens to his heartbeat. This used to be his favourite position, then, and to be back here feels unbelievable. Jon laughs silently, his chest vibrating beneath Theon’s cheek, and Theon sighs. “Alright, ask away. But I’m _not_ moving.”

“Okay, first.” Jon slides a hand in Theon’s hair, tugging gently. “I don’t really understand why you’re here all of a sudden. With me.”

“That’s not a question,” Theon mumbles. 

“Would you wait?” Jon hesitates, apparently having some difficulty putting his thoughts into order. “I guess what I want to ask… is this for real? Not just a passing Christmas fancy or something like this?”

It stings, that Jon seems not quite able to believe that Theon really means it, but then he can hardly blame him. It’s going to take time to regain Jon’s trust. Theon smiles, turning his face and burying his nose against Jon’s soft skin. As far as he’s concerned, they have all the time in the world.

“It’s real,” he says, deeply inhaling Jon’s scent. “And I’m prepared to show you how real it is for a very fucking long time. I meant what I said, Jon. And if you want it, it’s going to be you and me until you’re sick of me.”

“That long?” Jon sounds like he’s smiling, but Theon’s too comfortable to look up to confirm it. “Big words, Greyjoy. We’ll see. Okay, next question. Can we move somewhere else where I won’t throw my back out? The floor is pretty hard and I’m starting to get cold.”

“Hmm, I’m perfectly comfortable,” Theon mutters, sliding one leg over Jon’s. “But it would be a shame if you were unable to move these next few days, so…” He sits up, scrambling to his feet and holding out his hand to Jon. “Bedroom or couch?”

“Woah, woah,” Jon says once he’s levered himself up as well. “We shouldn’t even have done _this_ before actually talk– mmph!”

Theon attacks Jon’s mouth with vigor, swallowing his protesting noises until Jon breaks away, flustered and breathless. 

“Well, fuck,” he pants, trying to smooth down his hair. “I don’t know who I am even kidding. We both know how this’ll end.”

“With your cock lodged so deep inside my arse it’ll make me cough,” Theon whispers, and Jon starts to laugh, his amazing, beautiful, corners-of-his-mouth-actually-turning-down laugh. Theon kisses that mouth with a strange, stinging sensation in his chest, the one he has come to associate with pure joy. The one he now knows means love. 

In the end they do move to the couch, in their clothes. Jon insists on it, at least until he’s asked his questions. But he isn’t any better at keeping his hands to himself than Theon, and within moments they’ve resumed their original position: Jon lying on his back, Theon against his chest. He has one arm wrapped around Jon, the other getting numb beneath him, but Theon couldn’t care less. 

“I’ve missed this so much,” he says. “All those years I wouldn’t even let myself think about it, but now that I’m here again…I love this.” Theon cranes his neck to look at Jon’s face, smirking up at him. “The first time we were lying like this was after our _first time_ , if you know what I mean. Only with much less clothes.”

“I remember.” Jon shifts, peering down his nose at Theon with a curious gaze. “I’m actually astonished that _you_ do.”

“I might’ve had a recent reminder,” Theon mumbles. “Don’t ask, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway.”

“Is that to do with your babbling of ghosts by any chance?”

“Maybe,” Theon hedges, then sighs. “Alright, have you ever read _A Christmas Carol_?”

“Dickens? Gods, no.” Jon snorts. “I think I’ve seen the Muppets adaptation sometime.”

“But you know the plot?” Theon asks.

“Vaguely. Scrooge is an asshole who thinks Christmas and giving and love are bullshit and three ghosts visit him to – wait.” Jon sits up all of a sudden, dislodging Theon from his comfortable place. “Are you saying…”

“Yeah.” Theon shrugs. “I’ve been scrooged.”

“You’re telling me you’ve been visited by three ghosts.” Jon stares at Theon with a look of utmost doubt. “You say...okay, you’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“I know,” Theon sighs. “But as crazy as it sounds… I saw things, Jon. I saw the Christmas you first spent with the Starks after your mum had passed. You were sitting on the couch with Robb.”

“You were there too. That’s not convincing evidence. Are you sure you weren’t just drunk?” Jon leans forward, intently looking into Theon’s eyes with a worried frown. “A concussion perhaps? Have you hit your head?”

Theon surges forward, taking Jon entirely by surprise as he places a quick peck on his mouth. 

“Shut up, Snow! Let me tell you.” Theon settles back into the couch cushions. “I saw _everything._ Our first kiss at your and Robb’s Christmas party, our first time, and a lot of things after that. Made me realize how happy I was with you even though I didn’t stop trying to convince myself it was just a sex thing for me.”

Jon flinches, a look of hurt flickering over his face that has Theon reach out. And now it’s finally him holding Jon close, stroking his back, his hair. 

“Sshh, you stupid boy,” Theon says into Jon’s ear. “I was wrong, okay? It was never just about that, not even right at the beginning. I was just…” He takes a deep breath. Honesty, he reminds himself. “I was so scared of loving you. It makes me vulnerable. You could hurt me more than anyone ever has.”

“Like you hurt me, you mean?” Jon sniffs, moving back. “And now what. Now you’re suddenly not afraid anymore?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m fucking scared to death!” Theon looks over Jon’s shoulder, nervously scanning the room. But this time no cloaked figure appears at his words, and Theon exhales in relief. “Bad things could happen. I could lose you. Something could happen to you. You could meet someone else. I saw you with a big, red-haired guy in the future. He seemed to be good for you.” Theon smiles weakly. “Better than me.”

“Where…” To Theon’s surprise Jon’s cheeks redden, he looks sheepish. “Has someone told you about Tormund?”

“Tormund – wait, the big guy? Red hair, red beard?”

“Yeah.” Jon blushes even more, biting his lip. He avoids Theon’s gaze. “I had a thing with him about two years ago… he wanted more but I…” He shrugs in Theon’s embrace. “I was waiting for you.”

The mental image of Jon in another man’s arms is no less appalling than when he’s actually seen it with his own eyes, but the most horrible thing is the thought of Jon waiting, for six fucking years, alone and denying himself the comfort of being with someone for the sake of some fucking asshole who’s scared of his own heart. Theon swallows, drawing Jon close once again. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again. The words seem so inadequate, just a dumb phrase that doesn’t really do anything, but Theon says it again, and again, until he feels Jon relaxing against him, until his neck is wet from Jon’s tears. 

“So who told you then?” Jon asks, voice muffled before he straightens with a shaky sigh. “Sansa? Arya?”

“No one told me. I saw you with him in the future,” Theon explains patiently. “I was… I wasn’t there anymore and you were with him, for a time.” Theon kisses Jon’s face, tasting the salt on his skin. “You were still waiting for me I think.”

“That really sounds crazy.” Jon shakes his head, just a tiny movement. “I dunno, Theon.”

“I saw Arya being here yesterday.” If this doesn’t convince Jon, Theon has no idea what will. “You apologized for calling her away from that Gendry guy. You said you’d hoped for me to have, as Arya put it, a christmassy epiphany of some sorts. You gave her your present for me.”

Jon’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open. “But… how can you _know_ this? Has Arya–”

“I was _here_ , love.” Theon grabs Jon’s arms, squeezing them. “I was here and saw you sitting on this very couch when she was gone. You looked so sad, so lonely. I was right here.”

And finally, Jon believes him. Theon can see it in his eyes when it happens, when the doubt goes away, and Jon gasps, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. 

“You really… you were here… but… but what is the meaning of this?”

“To make me see. To show me how much you love me when my self-absorbed idiot ass couldn’t believe it,” Theon answers. “To make me realize how much I love _you_. And have for a long time.”

Jon makes a little noise, could be a laugh, could be a whimper, but Theon doesn’t care, for now Jon is kissing him again, hot and hard and sweet and everything at once. 

“Say it again,” Jon pants against Theon’s mouth, hands fumbling to get under his jumper, searching, stroking, clumsy and trembling. And Theon does. He says it again as they stumble to bed, he moans it when Jon moves above him, naked and warm and beautiful, he cries it out when Jon enters him for what feels like their first time all over again, he whispers it when Jon lies in his arms, sweaty and sated, when he smiles at Theon and says it back.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, dear friends! 
> 
> I want to thank you all who read this over the course of December - thank you for your kudos, your comments, your love and patience for poor Theon and the story. 
> 
> A special Thank You goes, as always, to @half_life, who cheered me on, read all the chapters as I wrote them, helped me with so many queries (the idea for both Jon and Theon's presents came from her!) AND did an awesome job betaing this whole mess. Thank you so much, I couldn't have done it without you. :-****
> 
> On we go - buckle in for the Happy Ending :)

For the first time since he’s arrived in Winterfell – for the first time in years, really – Theon wakes up feeling good. Warm. Hot, actually. He blinks, slowly becoming aware of a scorching someone wrapped around him like a vine, snugly pressed against his back. Theon wriggles, with the success of Jon’s hold on him tightening, his face burrowing into Theon’s neck. His beard is scratchy against Theon’s skin, morningwood hard enough to bruise his backside, he really has to pee – Theon smiles. He’s never felt so content.

“Are you still real?” 

Jon’s drowsy voice murmurs into his ear, and Theon’s smile wavers a little at the reminder. Jon doesn’t trust him yet, and why would he? As far as he knows it could still be some stupid phase of Theon’s. Theon carefully disentangles himself from Jon’s grip, turning around so he can rub his nose against Jon’s. 

“Give me a second and I’ll show you how real I am.”

When Theon comes back to the bedroom, Jon is sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and smiling tentatively. 

“Hey,” he says. “You’re really still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Theon sits down on the bed. “As far as I know my bed back home is occupied by Arya’s loverboy.”

“Gendry’s at the Starks?” Jon asks, puzzled. “What the hell is he doing there?”

“My fault,” Theon tells him. “He helped me out with something… wait a moment.” He quickly goes to get the bracelet, wrapped in his notes, and returns to Jon. “Here,” Theon says, holding it out to him. “Merry Christmas.”

Jon throws him a curious look as he unwraps it, then gasps when he sees what he’s holding in his hands. “Theon…” He seems lost for words, sliding the bracelet on his wrist. It fits perfectly, as if it really was made for him. Jon doesn’t look up, and just as Theon starts to get worried that Jon doesn’t like it, he does, eyes glazed and a watery smile on his pretty face. “This is really beautiful.”

“I thought it’s a good symbol for the two of us,” Theon says, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I’m the metal, you’re the stone. Like, it’s twisted, the metal, and there’s a flaw somewhere… and the stone is just, you know. Beautiful. It’s kind of a promise,” Theon adds hastily, before he can talk even more rubbish. “I promise I will always talk to you about everything. I promise I will try to cut down on the crazy paranoia.” He reaches out, gently stroking his thumb over Jon's cheek. “I promise I won’t ever hurt you again.”

“This almost sounds too good to be true,” Jon says, not unkindly. “Are you sure you want to make these kinds of promises already? Are you sure you can keep them?”

“I am sure that I want to do everything I can to make you happy.” 

“You’re here now. That’s so much more than I dared to hope for…” Jon sighs, crooking a half-smile. “I’m just not sure I’ve wrapped my head around it yet. It’s all kind of sudden, isn’t it? This complete change of heart… and don’t get started on the Ghosts again. I just…” Jon shrugs. “It’ll take some time getting used to.”

“You have all the time,” Theon says. “And that’s another promise I intend to keep.”

Jon hums, not fully convinced, but he does lean forward and Theon kisses him, a long, lingering kiss, trying to lay all of his promises into it. 

“Thank you,” Jon finally says, and now he’s really smiling. “Merry Christmas.”

“There’s some notes, too. You know when I didn’t know how to tell you what I wanted to say? Catelyn and the rest told me to write it down and I did, but I think most of it I actually told you in the meantime. I mean, you can still read it, obviously, or you don’t have to, like–”

“Theon,” Jon interrupts his babbling, eyes suddenly blazing with emotion. “Shut up.”

He surges forward, attacking Theon’s mouth with a flurry of kisses, ripping him down so Theon comes to lie on top of him. 

“Fuck me,” Jon whispers, hands wandering over Theon’s body, fingers digging into his flesh, blunt nails dragging across his skin. “Please, Theon… I need to feel you this time, please…”

And Theon does. He takes Jon in his arms, strokes his hair, his face. He whispers into his ear, tells him again all the things he should have told him so long ago, kisses the tears away that roll from his eyes into his hair. He glides into him, the feeling of Jon around him almost making him faint with the intensity of it. This is it, this is his life, his home, his love. Jon is his in every way possible, and he won’t lose him again, ever. 

“I’m yours,” he whispers, and Jon gasps as Theon tenses above him. “And I’ll never let go of you again.”

***

“I could get the idea you meant that literally,” Jon says, trying his hardest to drive Theon’s car safely to the Starks. It can’t be easy with just one hand. The other one Theon has in his own, refusing to let go. “That’ll get difficult, you know. Driving. Showering. Cooking. I’m not that skilled with my left hand.”

“Look ahead, Snow,” Theon tells him cheerily. “I can almost smell the turkey.”

“You think they’ve opened the presents without us?” Jon glances at Theon again, looking strangely nervous. 

“If you mean your present for me, Arya made me open that one yesterday evening. That’s the reason why I turned up at your place like a giant icicle.” Theon grins, squeezing Jon’s hand. “I want to properly thank you for it when we’re back at yours. Read you a story maybe.”

“Oh.” Jon swallows, gaze finally straight ahead. “So...you like it?”

“Of course I do! But I’m still going to rip that note out, if you don’t mind. Too gloomy. You can write something else in it. Something more hopeful for the future.” Theon’s grin broadens as he remembers something. “I mean, I don’t know about having kids, but I guess I promised Death I’d adopt a bunch of orphans if he let me off the hook.”

Jon gives him another glance, this time a clearly dubious one. “Let’s see if we make it into the new year before we think about getting a bunch of orphans, no matter what you promised… whoever.”

“Speaking of New Year’s, we’re spending it with my sister and her girlfriend,” Theon declares. “And I guess you want to stay here, right? In Winterfell? I’ll need to find a new job then. Do I have to trespass on Catelyn until you’re ready or can I move in right away?” he asks, earning himself an even more dubious glance. 

“Ash has a girlfriend? Wow.” Deliberately ignoring everything else Theon has said, Jon tries to blow a stray curl from his face, peering down on Theon’s hand still holding his. “Will I have to eat my turkey one-handed today?”

He doesn’t. Once they are in company there are presents to open, lunch to eat, games to play, people to hug. Theon tells himself to tone it down, give Jon some space to not seem like a complete nutter to the others. But he can’t hold back from casually touching Jon, wrapping his arm around Jon’s shoulders, stealing him away for a quick kiss. And to his surprise everyone takes it in stride. Cat doesn’t say a single thing while Sansa watches them misty-eyed, and Arya… well, she hasn’t murdered Theon yet. So, when in the evening they sit together in the living room, watching _The Holiday_ , it doesn’t feel too weird to sit with Jon tightly wrapped in Theon’s arms. He buries his nose in Jon’s hair, smiling when Jon’s hand comes up to stroke his face. 

And to the side, invisible to all of them, four figures watch them with a sense of pride. Ned’s eyes linger on his wife, on his children, on his nephew and the boy he took in such a long time ago. They’ve come a long way, but now they’re here, together. Robb’s smile is bright like the sun, turning smug whenever Jon tilts his head and Theon kisses him, whenever Theon whispers something that makes Jon smile. The third of them doesn’t look at the people in the room, the one eye he’s got left fixed longingly on a bottle of sherry Catelyn has presented to mark the occasion. 

“I’ve done what you wanted,” he says to the cloaked figure at his side. “Can I get my reward now?” 

“You did as you promised,” a musical voice answers. “You’re free to go. Heaven, hell, whichever is more to your liking. Just a hint, dear. Hell has more booze.”

Euron laughs, making a little bow, and in a cloud of dust he’s gone, presumably taking the fastest way to hell he can find. 

Robb coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. “Can I ask you one thing, Mrs. G?” 

“What is it, darling?” She turns her head, pushing the black hood back and revealing a long, fair braid. 

“Why didn’t you show Theon that it was you? He’d have been ecstatic to see you. Don’t get me wrong,” Robb hastens to add. “The whole Death thing sure did the trick. But…”

“He needed the two of you,” Alannys Greyjoy says. “To remind him of how lucky he is to have them.” She gestures at the assembled Starks. “The time will come for us to be together again, but right now he needs to live in the present. Me visiting him… It wouldn’t have been good for him, not at this point in his life.” Her smile vanishes. “And maybe I’m a little scared. Of how he’d react. What I did… How I left him and my girl…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ned says consolingly. “These things happen. And look what you gave him. You gave him back a family, and the knowledge of how loved he is. He’ll be fine.”

“Yes, he will,” Alannys says, and smiles. 

Theon rubs Jon’s arms, teasing him with a joke about Jude Law’s propensity to cry like a girl, just like someone else he knows. He's dropped more hints and nonchalant comments about moving in with Jon, and somehow everyone is already totally on board. Cat even promised to ask around if there’s any job openings, come New Year’s. It’s a little strange, being back here, dropping everything he has down south. Mostly bad memories though, anyway. Jon hasn’t said much whenever the topic’s come up, giving Theon those little glances everytime, doubt, mixed with hope, and a careful, hesitant hint of joy. 

“Think it’d be rude,” Theon says in Jon’s ear, “to fuck off before the happy ending?” He lets his hand wander down Jon’s stomach suggestively. “I still haven’t properly thanked you for my Christmas present, and I think it’d be detrimental to my reintegration into the family if I did it here.”

Jon slaps his hand away, but he laughs. “You have the rest of our lives to thank me,” he murmurs. “If we manage not to kill each other once you’ve settled everything in the city. My flat is really tiny. Maybe you’ll get sick of my company pretty soon.”

Theon’s chest tightens at that, a surge of joy nearly choking him. He bends his head, lets his lips graze Jon’s ear. “Unlikely. And do you know why? Because I love you,” he whispers, relishing how the words feel in his mouth. They taste like happiness. 

And in the middle of all that happiness, a sudden shiver crawls down Theon’s back, he slightly turns his head. _Merry Christmas,_ Robb’s voice says in Theon’s ear. _And God bless us, every one._

Theon chuckles, shakes his head, not surprised at all. _Shut up, Stark_ , he thinks, and, _love you too, man_. 

He looks up when he sees something moving from the corner of his eyes. And for a moment it’s almost as if he could see them, the somber, kind man who took him in, his best friend with his wonderful, broad smile, and… Theon squints, the image fades. No, that’s not possible. It doesn’t matter anyway. For now it's enough to know that they’re there, somewhere, not lost to him forever, helping him keep the shadows at bay. And maybe the best thing is knowing that, when he's ready to face them, he's got someone who'll always be there for him, by his side, unconditionally. Theon smiles, tightening his hold. There are no shadows at the moment. Right now he’s got everything he could wish for, in this room, in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm in violent turmoil about what to tackle next. There are heaps (and I mean heaps) of AUs to choose from. Dark ones, REALLY dark ones, cracky ones, dramatic and angsty ones, funny ones - and another one featuring ghosts, somehow I always end up with the ghosts XD
> 
> So, Merry Christmas to all of you, or Happy Hanukkah, or Happy Holidays, or just Happy 25th of December :)
> 
> (I'm also always taking prompts on Tumblr - owlsinathens - if one of you is after something specific :))

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are the essence of life ^^ If you liked it, or have a question, or just want to say hello - I'd love to hear from you :)


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